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^iterary  and 
Social  Judgments 


W.R.GREG 


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LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 


^2  tl)e  jsamc  ^tttl)or. 


ENIGMAS    OF   LIFE. 

I  vol.     i2mo.     pp.  322. 
Price,  $2.00. 


•,*  For  sale  by  all  Booksellers.    Sent,  post-paid,  on 
ceipt  0/ price  by  the  Publishers, 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  Boston. 


LITERARY 


SOCIAL   JUDGMENTS 


By  W.  R.  GREG. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES   R.  OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknob  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 

1873. 


University  Press:  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Ca, 
Cambridge. 


b  '^  ■ 


r  Vi  UNTVERsnr  of  California 

^  «ANTA  BARBARA  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 


CONTENTS. 
— « — 

Page 

ALA.DAME  DE   StAEL "...  7 

British  and  Foreign  Characteristics  ....  54 

False  Morality  of  Lady  Novelists         ....  85 

KiNGSLEY  AND   CaRLYLE 115 

French  Fiction:  The  Lowest  Deep 146 

Chateaubriand 182 

m.  de  tocqueville 241 

Why  are  Women  redundant] 274 

Truth  versus  Edification 309 

Time 328 

Good  People 338 


NOTE   TO   THE  AMERICAN   EDITION. 

One  paper,  an  essay  on  the  British  freedmen  in  Jamaica,  entitled 
"  The  Doom  of  the  Negro  Eace,"  is  omitted  from  this  edition,  as 
not  being  of  interest  to  the  American  reader,  either  in  subject  or 
treatment. 


LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 


MADAME  DE   STAEL. 

"  rpHE  Life  and  Times  of  Madame  de  Stael":  *  what 
I  a  promise  of  vivid  interest  does  not  the  title  hold 
forth !  What  a  host  of  images  and  ideas  start  into  life 
at  the  spell  of  that  name,  and  silently  group  themselves 
around  the  central  figure !  Necker,  tlie  object  of  her 
life-long  worship,  with  his  grand  position,  his  bourgeois 
intellect,  and  his  rare  integrity ;  Madame  Necker,  the 
rigid  mother,  the  tender  wife,  the  faithful  friend,  —  pu- 
ritanical, precise,  hornec,  but  not  ungenial;  Gibbon,  at 
first  the  phlegmatic  lover,  afterwards  the  philosophic 
friend,  but  always  brilliant,  fascinating,  and  profound; 
Louis  de  Narbonne,  perhaps  the  most  perfect  specimen 
then  extant  of  the  finished  noble  of  the  ancien  regiiiu, 
polished  to  the  core,  not  varnished  merely  on  the  sur- 
face; Talleyrand,  the  subtlest  and  deepest  intellect  of 
his  time,  and  long  the  intimate  associate  of  Madame  de 
Stael ;  Napoleon,  her .  relentless  persecutor ;  Benjamin 
Constant  and  Schlegel,  her  steady  and  attached  allies  :  — 
these  men  form  the  circle  of  which  she  was  the  centre 
and  the  chief. 

Then  the  "  times  "  in  which  she  lived  !  She  saw  the 
commencement  and  the  close  of  tliat  great  social  earth- 
quake which  overthrew  the  oldest  dynasty  in  Europe, 
shook  society  to  its  foundation,  unsettled  the  minds  of 
men  to  their  inmost  depths,  turned  up  the  subsoil  of 

*  The  Life  and  Times  of  Madame  de  Stael.  By  Maria  Norris.  Lou- 
don. 1853. 


8  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

nations  witli  a  deeper  ploughshare  than  Destiny  had 
e\'er  yet  driven,  and  opened  the  way  for  those  new  so- 
cial ideas  and  those  new  political  arrangements  which 
are  still  operating  and  fermenting,  and  the  final  issue, 
the  "perfect  work,"  of  which  our  children's  cliildren  may 
not  live  to  see.  Her  life,  though  only  prolonged  through 
half  a  century,  was  coeval  with  that  series  of  great 
events  which,  for  magnitude  and  meaning,  have  no  par- 
allel in  human  history ;  by  all  of  which  she  was  more  or 
less  affected ;  in  some  of  which  she  took  a  prominent 
and  not  unintluential  part.  She  was  born  while  the 
house  of  Bourbon  was  at  the  height  of  its  meretricious 
splendor  and  its  reckless  profligacy :  she  lived  to  see  it 
return,  after  its  tragic  downfall  and  its  dreary  banish- 
ment, to  a  house  that  had  been  "  swept  and  garnished," 
—  little  better  and  no  wiser  than  before.  She  saw  the 
rise,  the  culmination,  and  the  setting  of  Kapoleon's 
meteor-star;  she  had  reached  the  pinnacle  of  her  fame 
while  he  was  laying  the  foundation  of  his  ;  and  she, 
shattered  and  way-worn,  was  beginning  to  look  forward 
to  her  final  rest  when  his  career  was  closed  forever  in 
defeat  and  exile. 

But  it  is  not  of  the  period  in  which  she  lived  that  we 
think  first  or  most  naturally  when  we  hear  the  name  of 
Madame  de  Stael :  it  is  of  the  writer  wdiose  wondrous  gen- 
ius and  glowing  eloquence  held  captive  our  souls  in  "the 
season  of  susceptive  youth,"  of  the  author  of  the  Ldtrcs 
sur  Rousseau,  who  sanctioned  and  justified  our  early  par- 
tiality for  that  fascinating  rhapsbdist,  —  oi  L'AUcmagne, 
from  whose  pages  we  first  imbibed  a  longing  to  make  the 
riches  of  that  mighty  literature  our  own,  —  of  Corinnc, 
over  whose  woes  and  sorrows  so  many  eyes  have  wept 
delicious  tears ;  of  that  dazzling  admixture  of  deep 
thought,  tender  sentiment,  and  brilliant  fancy,  which 
give  to  her  writings  a  charm  possessed  by  the  produc- 
tions of  no  other  woman,  —  and  in  truth  of  but  few 
men. 

Anne-Marie  Louise  Necker  was  born  at  Paris  in  1766. 
Both  her  parents  were  remarkable  persons.     Her  father, 


MADAME  DE  STAEL. 


James  Necker,  a  simple  citizen  of  Geneva,  began  life  as 
clerk  in  a  banker's  office  in  Paris,  speedily  became  a 
partner,  and  by  skill,  diligence,  sound  judgment,  and 
strict  integrity,  contrived  in  the  course  of  twenty  years 
to  amass  a  large  fortune  and  to  acquire  a  lofty  reputa- 
tion. While  accumulating  wealth,  however,  he  neglected 
neither  literature  nor  society.  He  studied  both  pliiloso- 
pliy  and  political  economy  ;  he  associated  with  the  Ency- 
clopedists and  eminent  literati  of  the  time ;  his  house 
was  frequented  by  some  of  the  most  remarkable  men 
who  at  that  period  made  the  Parisian  salons  the  most 
brilliant  in  Europe ;  and  he  found  time,  by  various  writ- 
ings on  financial  matters,  to  create  a  high  and  general 
estimation  of  his  talents  as  an  administrator  and  econo- 
mist. His  management  of  the  affairs  of  the  French 
East  India  Company  raised  liis  fame  in  the  highest  po- 
litical circles,  while,  as  accredited  agent  for  the  Eepublic 
of  Geneva  at  the  Court  of  Versailles,  he  obtained  the 
esteem  and  confidence  alike  of  the  sovereign  and  the 
ministers.  So  high  did  lie  stand  both  in  popular  and 
courtly  estimation,  that,  shortly  after  the  accession  of 
Louis  XYL,  he  was  appointed,  although  a  foreigner, 
Comptroller-General  of  the  Finances.  He  held  this 
post  for  five  years,  till  1781 ;  and  contrived  not  only 
to  effect  considerable  savings  by  the  suppression  of  up- 
wards of  six  hundred  sinecures,  but  also  in  some  small 
degree  to  mitigate  and  equalize  taxation,  and  to  intro- 
duce a  system  of  order  and  regularity  into  the  public 
accounts  to  which  they  had  long  been  strangers.  As 
proved  by  his  celebrated  Compte  rendu,  which,  though 
vehemently  attacked,  was  never  successfully  impugned, 
he  found  a  deficit  of  thirty-four  millions  when  he  entered 
office,  and  left  a  surplus  of  ten  millions  when  he  quitted 
it,  —  notwithstanding  the  heavy  expenses  of  the  Ameri- 
can war.  In  the  course  of  his  administration,  however, 
Necker  had  inevitably  made  many  enemies,  who  busied 
themselves  in  undermining  his  position  at  court,  and 
overruled  the  weak  and  vacillating  attachment  of  the 
king.  Necker  found  that  his  most  careful  and  valuable 
1* 


10  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

plans  were  canvassed  and  spoiled  by  liis  enemies  in  tlie 
Council,  where  he  was  not  present  to  defend  them,  and 
that,  in  fact,  he  had  not  and  could  not  have  fair  play- 
while  he  continued  excluded  fiom  the  Caljinet.  He  de- 
manded, therefore,  the  entry  of  the  Privy  Council,  and 
resij^ned  when  it  was  refused  him  ;  though  earnestly  re- 
quested to  remain  by  those  who  knew  how  valuable  his 
reputation  was  to  a  discredited  and  unpopular  court, 
unwilling  as  they  were  to  submit  to  his  measures  or 
honestly  adopt  his  plans.  Necker  did  not  choose  to  be 
so  used ;  and  he  retired  to  write  the  celel)rated  work  on 
the  Administration  of  the  Finances,  which  at  once  placed 
him  on  the  pinnacle  of  popularity  and  fame.  Eighty 
thousand  copies  were  sold ;  and  henceforth  Keeker  was 
the  man  on  whom  all  eyes  were  turned  in  every  financial 
crisis,  and  to  whom  the  nation  looked  as  the  only  min- 
ister who  could  rescue  them  from  the  difficulties  Avhich 
were  daily  thickening  around  them. 

Then  followed  the  reckless  administration  of  Calonne, 
whose  sole  principle  Avas  that  of  "  making  tilings  pleasant," 
and  who,  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  added  1,64G  millions 
to  the  capital  of  the  debt,  and  left  an  annual  deficit  of 
140  millions,  instead  of  an  annual  excess  of  ten.  Brienne 
attacked  him,  and  succeeded  him  ;  but  things  went  on 
from  bad  to  worse,  till,  when  matters  were  wholly  past  a 
remedy,  in  August,  1788,  Necker  was  recalled  and  rein- 
stated. What  he  might  have  done,  on  the  occasion  of 
this  second  ministry,  had  he  been  a  man  of  commanding 
genius  and  unbending  will,  it  is  useless  and  perhaps  im- 
possible to  conjecture.  Surrounded  with  numberless  per- 
plexities ;  beset  at  once  by  the  machinations  of  unscru- 
pulous enemies  who  counterworked  him  in  secret,  and  by 
the  embarrassments  which  every  predecessor  had  accu- 
mulated in  his  path  ;  borne  into  power  on  a  tide  of  popu- 
lar expectations  which  no  popularity  could  enable  him 
to  satisfy ;  set  down  to  labor  at  the  solution  of  a  perhaps 
insoluble  problem  ;  face  to  face  with  a  crisis  whicli  might 
W(.dl  stagger  tlie  most  dauntless  courage  and  confuse  the 
clearest  head ;   famine  around  him,  bankruptcy  before 


MADAME   DE  STAEL.  11 

him  ;  and  all  other  voices  gradually  lost  iu  one  "  which 
every  moment  waxed  louder  and  more  terrible,  —  the 
fierce  and  tumultuous  roar  of  a  great  people,  conscious  of 
irresistible  strength,  maddened  by  intolerable  wrongs, 
and  sick  of  deferred  hopes  " :  —  perhaps  no  human 
strength  or  wisdom  could  have  sufficed  for  the  require- 
ments of  that  fearful  time ;  perhaps  no  human  power 
could  then  have  averted  the  catastrophe.  AVhat  Keeker 
might  have  done  had  he  acted  differently  and  been  differ- 
ently made,  we  cannot  say.  What  he  did  was  to  struggle 
with  manly,  but  not  hopeful,  courage  for  a  terrible  twelve 
mouths  ;  using  his  great  credit  to  procure  loans,  spending 
his  vast  private  fortune  to  feed  the  famishing  populace 
of  Paris  ;  commencing  the  final  act  of  the  long  inclioate 
revolution,  by  calling  the  States-General ;  insuring  its 
fearful  triumph  by  the  decisive  measure  of  doubling  the 
numbers  of  the  tiers-etat,  and  permitting  the  States  to 
deliberate  in  common  ;  devising  schemes  of  finance  and 
taxation  which  were  too  wise  to  be  palatable  and  too 
late  to  save  ;  composing  speeches  for  the  monarch  to  de- 
liver, which  the  queen  and  the  courtiers  ruined  and  emas- 
culated before  they  were  made  public  ;  and  bearing  the 
blame  of  faults  and  failures  not  his  own.  At  length  his 
subterranean  enemies  prevailed  ;  he  received  his  secret 
conge  from  the  king,  in  July,  1789,  and  reached  Basle,  re- 
joicing at  heart  in  his  relief  from  a  burden  of  which,  even 
to  one  so  passionately  fond  of  popularity  as  he  was,  the 
weight  was  beginning  to  be  greater  than  the  charms. 

The  people  were  furious  at  the  dismissal  of  their  favor- 
ite ;  the  Assembly  affected  to  be  so.  Riots  ensued  ;  the 
Bastille  was  stormed ;  blood  was  shed ;  the  Court  was 
frightened ;  and  Necker  was  once  more  recalled.  The 
royal  messenger  overtook  him  just  as  he  was  entering 
Switzerland,  with  the  command  to  return  to  Paris  and 
resume  his  post.  He  obeyed  the  mandate  with  a  sad 
presentiment  that  he  was  returning  to  be  a  useless  sacri- 
fice in  a  hopeless  cause,  but  with  the  conviction  that  duty 
left  him  no  alternative.  His  journey  to  Paris  was  one 
long  ovation ;   the  authorities  everywhere  came  out  to 


12  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

greet  him  ;  the  inhabitants  thronged  around  his  ]>at!i  ; 
the  popukice  unharnessed  his  horses  and  drew  his  c;!i- 
riage  a  great  part  of  the  way  ;  the  minister  drank  deeply 
of  the  intoxicating  cup  of  national  gratitude  and  jujpuh.r 
applause  ;  and  if  he  relished  it  too  keenly  and  regretted 
it  too  much,  at  least  he  used  it  nobly,  and  had  earned  it 
well.  It  would  have  been  far  better  for  his  own  fame 
and  happiness  if  he  had  not  returned  to  power  :  it  could 
scarcely  have  been  worse  for  his  adopted  country.  His 
third  and  last  administration  was  a  series  of  melancholy 
and  perhaps  inevitable  failures.  Tlie  torrent  of  pojular 
violence  had  become  far  too  strong  to  stem.  The  mon- 
archy had  fallen  to  a  position  in  which  it  was  impossible 
to  save  it.  Necker's  head,  too,  seems  to  have  been  some- 
what turned  by  his  triumph.  He  disappointed  the  peo- 
ple and  bored  the  Assembly.  The  stream  of  events  had 
swept  past  him,  and  left  him  standing  bewildered  and 
breathless  on  the  margin.  "  Les  temps  etaient  bien 
changes  pour  lui,  et  il  n'^tait  plus  ce  ministre  a  la  con- 
servation duquel  le  peuple  attachait  son  bonheur  un  an 
auparavant.  Prive  de  la  confiance  du  roi,  brouille  avcc 
ses  collegues,  excepte  Montmorin,  il  etait  neglige  par 
I'Assemblee,  et  n'en  obtenait  pas  tous  les  ^gards  qu'il  cf,t 
pu  en  attendre.  L'erreur  de  Xecker  consistait  a  croire 
que  la  raison  suffisait  a  tout,  et  que,  manifestee  avec  un 
melange  de  sentiment  et  de  logique,  elle  devait  trionqjher 
de  reutetement  des  aristocrates  et  de  I'irritation  des 
patriotes.  Necker  possedait  cette  raison  un  pen  here  qui 
juge  les  ecarts  de's  passions  et  les  blame ;  mais  il  man- 
quait  de  cette  autre  raison  plus  elevee  et  moins  orgueil- 
leuse,  qui  ne  se  borne  pas  a  les  bklmer,  mais  qui  sait  aus- 
si.les  conduire.  Aussi,  place  au  milieu  d'elles,  il  nc  fut 
pour  tontcs  qitune  gene  et  point  un  frein.  II  avait  blesse 
I'Assemblee,  en  lui  rappelant  sans  cesse  et  avec  des  re- 
proches  le  soin  le  plus  difficile  de  tous,  celui  des  finances  : 
il  s'etait  attire  en  outre  le  ridicule  par  la  maniere  dtuit 
il  ]»arlait  de  lui-meme.  Sa  d(!^mission  fut  aeccptee  avec 
]>laisir  ])ar  tous  les  partis.  Sa  voiture  fut  arretee  a  la  sor- 
tie du  royaumc  par  le  meme  peuple  qui  I'avait  naguere 


MADAME  DE  STAEL.  13 

trainee  en  triomphe ;  il  fallut  un  ordre  de  I'Assemblee 
pour  que  la  liberte  d'aller  en  Suisse  lui  fut  accordee.  II 
I'obteuait  Lieutot,  et  se  retira  a  Coppet,  pour  y  contem- 
pler  de  loin  une  revolution  qu'il  etait  plus  propre  k  ob- 
server qua  conduire."  * 

If  the  society  of  few  men  is  more  interesting  or  in- 
structive than  that  of  the  retired  statesman,  who,  ImA'ing 
played  his  part  in  the  world's  history,  stands  aside  to 
watch  at  leisure  the  further  progress  of  the  mighty  dra- 
ma, and  having  served  his  country  faithfully  and  labori- 
ously during  his  years  of  vigor  and  maturity  has  earned 
a  right  to  repose  in  the  decline  of  life  ;  who  contemplates 
.with  a  mind  enriched  by  reflection,  and  not  soured  by 
failure,  the  evolution  of  those  great  problems  of  human 
destiny  quorum  2)ars  magna  fuit,  and  brings  the  experi- 
ence of  the  man  of  action  to  modify  the  conclusions  of 
the  man  of  thought ;  and  who  —  with  that  serenity  of 
soul  which  is  the  last  achievement  of  wisdom  and  of  vir- 
tue, and  which  belongs  only  to  those  who  have  fought 
the  good  fight,  striven  through  the  angiy  tempest,  and 
reached  the  quiet  haven  —  can  look  with  a  vivid  interest 
which  has  no  touch  of  scorn  on  the  combatants  who  are 
still  intent  upon  the  battle  or  struggling  in  the  storm, 
can  aid  them  b}''  his  counsel  and  cheer  them  by  his  sym- 
pathy ;  —  on  the  other  hand,  there  are  few  sadder  spec- 
tacles than  that  presented  by  the  politician  cast  out  from 
power,  unable  to  accept  his  fate,  and  sitting  unreconciled, 
mourning,  and  resentful  amid  the  ruins  of  his  greatness. 
Sucli  was  Necker  in  his  last  retirement.  *  For  a  long  time 
he  said  he  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  coup  de  foiulrc 
which  had  overthrown  him.  In  one  short  year  he  had 
fallen  from  the  pinnacle  of  prosperity  to  the  depths  of 
disgrace  and  neglect ;  and  as  he  had  relished  the  former 
more  keenly  perhaps  than  befitted  a  philosopher,  so  he 
felt  the  latter  more  bitterly  than  became  a  wise  man  or 
a  Christian.  His  mortification  and  regret,  too,  were  en- 
hanced by  a  somewhat  morbid  conscientiousness ;  ■\  he 

*  Thiers,  Eevolution  Fran^aise,  I.  p.  199. 

t  "  Cette  teneur  du  remolds  a  ete  toute  puissaute  sur  la  A'ie  de  moa 


14  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

could  not  shake  off  the  idea  that  there  was  somethinir 
culpable  in  failure  ;  he  felt  that  he  had  not  been  equal  to 
the  crisis,  and  tliat  he  had  coniniittcd  many  errors  ;  he 
could  not  divest  liimself  of  tlie  dread  that  liis  own  meas- 
ures miglit  have  let  loose  that  tide  of  national  fury  which 
M'as  now  so  fearfully  avenging  the  lieaped-up  wrongs  of 
centuries ;  and  the  annoyance  of  failure  was  aggravated 
by  the  sense  of  guilt.  Besides  all  this,  he  loved  France 
too  well  not  to  mourn  over  her  prospects  and  blush  for 
her  savagery  and  her  crimes  ;  so  he  sat  in  his  garden  at 
Coppet,  dejected  and  remorseful,  pining  over  the  past, 
and  full  of  gloomy  forebodings  for  the  future  ;  and  deaf 
to  the  consolations  of  his  faithful  wife  and  his  adoring 
daughter.  Gibbon,  who  saw  much  of  him  at  this  period 
of  his  career,  says  that  he  should  have  liked  to  show  him 
in  his  then  condition  to  any  one  whom  he  desired  to  cure 
of  the  sin  of  ambition.  He  passed  whole  days  in  gloom 
and  silence  ;  all  attempts  to  engage  him  in  conversation 
were  vain  ;  he  felt  like  a  vessel  wrecked  and  stranded : 
"  Othello's  occupation  was  gone." 

By  degrees,  however,  this  depression  left  him,  and  he 
roused  himself  again  to  interest  and  action.  He  sent  forth 
pamphlet  after  pamphlet  of  warning  and  remonstrance  to 
hostile  readers  and  unheeding  ears.  He  offered  himself  to 
Louis  as  his  advocate,  when  that  monarch  was  brought  to 
trial,  and  wlien  liis  offer  was  declined,  published  a  gener- 
ous and  warm  defence  of  his  old  master.  The  remainder 
of  his  life  was  passed  in  the  enjoyment  of  family  affection, 
of  literary  labors,' and  of  philosophical  and  religious  spec- 

ptre  :  il  etait  pret  h  se  condamner  des  que  le  sucees  ne  repondait  pas  h. 
SI'S  efforts?,  sans  cesse  il  se  jugeait  hu-menie  de  iionveau.  On  a  cru  (ju'il 
avait  de  I'orgueil,  parcequ'il  ne  s'est  jamais  courbe  ni  sous  I'injustice  ni 
sous  le  pouvoir,  niais  il  se  prosternait  devant  un  regret  du  coeur,  devant  le 
plus  subtil  des  .scnii)uU's  de  I'espiit  ;  et  ses  ennemis  peuvent  apprendre 
avec  certitude  qu'ils  out  e\i  le  triste  sucees  de  trouWer  aniereineut  son 
repos,  cliaque  fois  i^u'ils  I'ont  accuse  d'etre  la  cause  d'un  nialheur.  ou  de 
n'avoir  pas  su  le  prevenir.  II  est  ai^e  de  concevoir  qu'  avec  autaut  d'inia- 
giuation  et  de  sensibilite,  quand  I'histoire  de  notre  vie  se  trouve 
melee  aux  plus  terribles  ev^ncniens  politiques,  ni  la  couscii  nee,  ni  la  rai- 
.son,  ni  restime  nieme  du  monde  ne  i-assurent  entierenient  riiomine  de 
P'jnie,  .lont  I'ardente  pensee,  dans  la  solitude,  s'acharne  sur  le  passe.''  — 
J'ic  privee  dc  M.  Xedccr,  pur  Madame  de  Stat/,  p.  55. 


MADAME  DE  STAEL.  J  5 

Illations ;  and  he  died  in  1804  at  the  age  of  seventy-two, 
happy  in  the  conviction  that  he  was  only  exchanging  tlie 
society  of  his  cherished  daugliter  for  that  of  his  faithful 
and  long  respected  wife,  who  had  died  some  years  before. 
On  the  whole,  Necker  was  worthy  of  all  honor  and  of 
long  remembrance.  History  tells  ns  of  many  greater 
statesmen,  but  of  few  better  men.  Without  going  so  far 
as  his  enthusiastic  daughter,  who  more  than  once  declares 
that  his  genius  was  bounded  only  by  his  virtue,  we  quite 
admit  that  his  weakness  and  indecision  were  often  attrib- 
utable to  his  scrupulosity,  and  that  more  pliant  princi- 
ples and  a  liarder  heart  might  occasionally  have  fitted  him 
better  to  deal  with  the  evil  days  on  wdiich  he  had  fallen. 
In  truth,  for  such  a  crisis  as  that  of  tlie  French  Revolution 
he  was  somewhat  too  much  of  the  preacher  and  the  prude. 
He  was  well  aware  of  his  own  deficiencies.  He  told  Louis 
XVI.  that  if  moral  purity  and  administrative  skill  were 
all  that  was  needed  in  the  government,  he  might  be  able 
to  serve  him,  but  that  if  ever  the  times  should  require  a 
genius  and  a  will  like  Richelieu's,  then  he  must  resign  the 
helm  to  abler  hands.  His  portrait  and  his  justification 
may  be  given  in  a  single  sentence:  he  was  a  good  man 
cast  upon  times  that  required  a  great  man :  his  failure 
was  the  inevitable  one  of  mediocrity  intrusted  with  a 
task  which  scarcely  the  rarest  genius  could  have  success- 
fully accomplished.  Disinterested  almost  to  a  fault,  in 
a  peiiod  of  uue.xampled  rapacity  and  corruption ;  stain- 
less and  rigid  in  his  morals  amid  universal  laxity  and 
license ;  ardently  and  unaffectedly  religious,  in  a  howl- 
ing wilderness  of  impiety  and  atheism ;  conscientious, 
while  all  around  him  were  profligate  and  sellish ;  mod- 
erate, while  every  one  else  was  excited  and  intemperate,  — 
he  was  strangely  out  of  place  in  that  wild  chaos  of  the 
old  and  new  :  the  age  demanded  sterner  stuff  than  he 
was  made  of,  other  services  than  he  could  render.  "  To 
be  weak  "  (says  Carlyle)  "  is  not  so  miserable ;  hut  to  he 
tveal::))'  than  oar  task.  Woe  the  day  when  they  mounted 
thee,  a  peaceable  pedestrian,  on  that  wild  Hippogryff  of 
a  Democracy,  which,  spurning  the  firm  earth,  nay,  lash- 


IG  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

irifT  at  the  very  stars,  no  yet  known* Astolpho  could  have 
riildeu  !" 

Madame  Necker,  too,  was  in  her  way  remarkable 
enough.  The  daughter  of  a  Swiss  Protestant  minister 
of  high  re[)ute  for  piety  and  talent,  and  lierself  early  dis- 
tinguished botli  for  beauty  and  accomjdishments,  her 
spotless  character  and  superior  intellectual  powers  at- 
tracted the  admiration  of  Gibbon  during  his  early  resi- 
dence at  Lausanne.  He  proposed  and  was  accepted  ;  but 
his  father,  imagining  that  his  son  might  well  aspire  to 
some  higher  connection,  was  very  indignant,  and  forbade 
the  fulfilment  of  the  engagement.  Gibbon  submitted,  and 
moralized:  "  I  sighed  as  a  lover"  (says  he)  "and  ol)eyed 
as  a  son,  and  Mademoiselle  Curchod  is  now  the  wife  of 
the  favored  minister  of  a  great  kingdom,  and  sits  in 
the  high  places  of  the  earth."  They  renewed  their  ac- 
quaintance in  after  years,  and  remained  fast  friends  till 
deatli.  There  is  something  to  onr  feelings  very  touching 
in  this  lasting  attachment  between  those  who  had  l)een 
lovers  in  their  youth,  but  who  had  been  })revented  from 
uniting  their  lots  in  life;  and  the  letters  of  Madame 
Necker,  many  of  which  are  preserved,  give  us  a  most 
pleasing  impression  of  both  her  character  and  powers, 
and  convey  the  idea  of  far  greater  tenderness  and  poetry 
of  soul  than,  judging  from  other  sources  of  information, 
she  was  generally  sujiposed  to  possess.  Faithfully  and 
ardently  attached  to  her  husband,  whose  consolation  and 
strength  she  had  supplied  during  long  years  of  trial, 
prosperity,  and  sorrow,  and  who  repaid  her  with  a  fond- 
ness even  more  feminine  than  her  own,  she  had  yet 
umch  true,  warm,  and  watchful  affection  to  spare  lor  her 
early  and  now  famous  friend.  In  1792  she  writes  to 
Gibbon  from  Coppet :  — 

"  Nous  vous  iittendrons  ici,  et  les  charmes  de  votre  society 
nous  feront  oublier  encore  inie  fois  les  peines  de  la  vie.  Nous 
nous  r^unissous,  M.  Necker  ct  moi,  pour  vous  offi-ir  I'hom- 
mage  d'une  teudre  amitid ;  et  il  nie  seuible  qu'en  me  doublant 
ainsi,  je  r^pare  aupres  de  vous  tout  ce  que  Ic  teuijis  ni'a  foit 
perdre Malgrd  votre  silence  voluntaire,  malgre  le  si- 


MADAME  DE  STAEL.  17 

leuce  involontaire  que  j^ai  gard6  avec  vous,  voiis  n'avez  jamais 
cesse  un  instant  d'etre  Tobjet  de  mon  admiration,  et  de  cette 
tendre  et  pure  affection  sur  laquelle  le  temps  ne  peut  avoir 
d'empire.     Yos  ouvrages  ont  fait  mes  delassemeus  les  plus 

doux Yos  paroles  sont  pour  moi  ces  fleuves   de  lait 

et  de  miel  de  la  terre  promise  ;  et  je  crois  entendre  leur  doux 
murmure  :  cependant  je  regi'ette  encore  le  plaisir  que  j'avais 
a  vous  entretouir,  pendant  le  jour,  de  mes  pens^es  de  la  veille. 
Je  vivais  ainsi  deux  fois  avec  vous,  dans  le  temps  pass6  et 
dans  le  temps  present;  et  ces  temps  s'embellissaient  V\u\  par 
I'autre  :  —  puis-je  me  flatter  de  retrouver  ce  bonheur  dans  nos 
allees  de  Coppet  1     Milles  tendres  amities." 

Again :  — 

"  Yous  m'avez  toujours  et6  cher,  Monsieur ;  mais  I'amitie 
que  vous  montrez  a  M.  Necker  ajoute  encoi*e  a  celle  que  vous 
m'inspirez  a  tarit  de  titres ;  et  je  vous  aime  a  present  d'une 

double  affection Nous  pensons  souvent,  Monsieur,  aux 

joui's  pleins  de  charmes  que  nous  avons  passees  avec  vous  a 
Geneve.  J'ai  eprouve  pendant  cette  epoque  un  sentiment 
nouveau  pour  moi,  et  peut-etre  pour  beaucoup  de  gens.  Je 
reunissais  dans  un  meme  lieu,  et  par  une  favour  bien  rare  de 
la  Providence,  une  des  douces  et  pures  affections  de  ma  jeu- 
nesse,  avec  celle  qui  fait  mon  sort  sur  la  terre,  et  qui  le  rend 
si  digne  d'envie 

"  Quel  prix  mon  occur  n'attache-t-il  point  a  votre  sijnte,  a 
I'interet  que  votre  amitie  repand  sur  notre  retraite.  En 
ai'rivant  ici,  en  n'y  retrouvant  que  les  tombeaux  de  ceux  que 
j'ai  taut  aime,  vous  avez  ^t^  pour  moi  couime  im  arbre  soli- 
taire, dont  I'ombre  couvre  encore  le  desert  qui  me  separe  des 

premieres  annees  de  ma  vie L'ame  de  M.  Necker  est 

embrasee  par  la  douleur  des  evenemens,  et  j'ai  besoin  de 
toutes  les  ressources  'de  I'amitie  la  plus  tendre  pour  faire 
diversion  aux  tourmens  qu'il  endure.  Votre  conversation  me 
donnera  des  moA'ens  en  ce  genre,  auquels  il  est  impossible  de 
resister  ;  cependant  votre  bonheur  m'est  trop  cher  pour  que 
je  voulusse  vous  faire  perdre  aucun  des  iustans  de  la  soci6t6 
dont  vous  jouissez.  Revenez  a  nous  quand  vous  serez  rendu  a 
vous-meme  ;  c'est  le  moment  qui  doit  toujours  appartenir  a 
votre  premiere  et  a  votre  derniere  amie  :  —  je  ne  saurais  decou- 
vrir  encore  lequel  de  ces  deux  titres  est  le  plus  doux  et  le 
plus  cher  a  mon  coeur." 

B 


18  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

When  Gibbon  left  Lausanne  for  London  in  1793,  to 
undergo  a  painful  and  critical  operation,  Madame  Xecker 
writes  once  more  :  — 

"Vous  m'annonciez  de  Donvres,  Monsieur,  nne  lettre  par 
lo  courier  prochain ;  je  raticuds  encore  ct  chaque  jour  avec 
plus  d'an<(oisse.  Je  me  consume  en  conjectures  inquietantes. 
Cepcndant  il  fixut  etre  juste;  vous  ne  pouvez  pcnser  k  nous 
aussi  sou  vent  que  nous  vous  rapprochons  de  notre  coeur.  A 
Londres  tout  vous  ramene  aux  iddes  de  ce  monde,  tandis  que 
tout  nous  en  ^loigne  ici ;  pres  de  vous  les  souvenirs  que  vous 
me  rappeliiez  m'etaient  doux,  ct  les  id^es  pr^sentes  que  vous 
faisiez  naitre  s'y  r^unissaient  sans  peine  ;  renchanement  d'un 
grand  nonibre  d'annees  semblait  faire  toucher  tons  les  temps 
I'un  k  I'autre,  avec  une  rapidite  electrique ;  vous  etiez  a  la 
fois  pour  moi  a  vingt  ans  et  a  cinquante ;  loin  de  a'ous,  les 
differens  licux  que  j'ai  habite  ne  sont  plus  que  les  pierres 
itineraires  de  ma  vie ;  il  m'avertissent  de  tous  les  milles  que 
j'ai  deja  parcourus." 

It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  the  woman  who  at  the 
age  of  fifty  could  write  Mith  a  simple  and  overflowing 
tenderness  to  the  friend  of  her  youth,  could  be  the  cold 
and  almost  rigid  Puritan  she  is  represented.  There  seems, 
howe\  er,  to  have  been  a  certain  reserve  in  her  character 
which  approached  to  roidcur  ;  she  was  pre-eminently  a 
woman  of  principle,  and  Jived  perhaps  too  much  by  rule 
and  line  to  be  easy  and  amiable  in  the  general  intercourse 
of  the  world.  This  peculiarity  rendered  her  peculiarly 
unfit  to  manage  or  even  to  comprehend  her  daughter's 
nature,  which  was  as  full  of  vehemence  and  abandon,  as 
hers  was  of  strictness  and  precision ;  and  in  one  of  her 
letters  she  intimates  how  much  she  felt  the  want  of  an 
"  intermcdiaire  ou  plutot  un  interprete  "  between  them. 
Certain  it  is  that  she  contrived  to  give  to  those  around 
her  the  impression  of  a  somewhat  unamiable  severity  of 
virtue  and  frigidity  of  temperament,  and  though  univer- 
sally esteemed  and  gi-eatly  admired,  was  too  faultless  to 
be  generally  loved. 

How  such  a'  child  as  Mademoiselle  Xecker  came  to 
spring  from  two  parents  who  resembled  her  so  little. 


MADAME   DE  STAEL.  19 

"svere  a  yain  conjecture.  She  was  from  the  first  the  very 
incarnation  of  genius  and  of  impulse.  Her  precocity 
was  extraordinary,  and  her  vivacity  and  vehemence  both 
of  intellect  and  temperament  baffled  all  her  mother's  ef- 
forts at  regulation  and  control.  Her  power  of  acquisi- 
tion and  mental  assimilation  was  immense.  At  twelve 
years  of  age  she  wrote  a  drama  of  social  life,  which  was 
acted  by  herself  and  her  young  companions.  Her  re- 
markable talent  for  conversation,  and  for  understanding 
the  conversation  of  others,  even  at  that  early  period, 
attracted  the  attention  and  excited  the  affectionate  inter- 
est of  many  of  the  celebrated  men  who  frequented  her 
father's  salon ;  and  in  spite  of  jMadame  Xecker's  disap- 
proving looks,  they  used  to  gather  around  her,  listening 
to  her  sallies,  and  provoking  her  love  of  argument  and 
repartee.  Gibbon,  the  Abbe  Eaynal,  Baron  Grimm,  and 
Marmontel  were  among  these  habitues  of  decker's  soci- 
ety at  that  time,  and  we  can  well  comprehend  the  stim- 
ulus which  the  intercourse  with  such  minds  must  have 
given  to  the  budding  intellect  of  his  daughter.  The  fri- 
volity of  French  society  was  already  wearing  away  under 
the  inlluence  of  the  great  events  which  were  throwing 
their  shadows  before  them ;  and  even  if  it  had  not  been 
so,  Xecker's  own  taste  would  have  secured  a  graver  and 
more  solid  tone  than  prevailed  in  common  circles.  The 
deepest  interests  of  life  and  of  the  world  were  constantly 
under  discussion.  The  grace  of  the  old  era  still  lingered  ; 
the  gravity  of  the  new  era  was  stealing  over  men's 
minds ;  and  the  vivacity  and  brilliancy  Avhich  have  never 
been  wholly  lost  at  Paris,  bound  the  two  elements  to- 
gether in  a  strangely  fascinating  union.  It  was  a  very 
hot-bed  for  the  development  of  a  vigorous  young  brain 
like  that  of  ^Mademoiselle  Xecker.  Her  father,  too,  aided 
not  a  little  to  call  forth  her  powers ;  he  was  proud  of  her 
talents,  and  loved  to  initiate  her  into  his  own  philosophic 
notions,  and  to  inoculate  her  with  his  generous  and  lofty 
purposes  ;  and  from  her  almost  constant  intercourse  with 
him,  and  his  tenderness  and  indulgent  sympathy,  —  so 
different  from  her  mother's  uncaressing  and  somewhat 


20  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

oppressive  formalism,  —  sprung  that  vehement  and  ear- 
nest attachment  with  which  she  regarded  him  through 
life.  This  affection  colored  and  modified  her  whole  ex- 
istence ;  it  was  in  fact  the  strongest  and  most  pertina- 
cious feeling  of  her  nature ;  and  her  delineation  of  it  (in 
her  Vic  privec  dc  M.  Ncckcr)  is,  in  spite  of  its  exaggera- 
tion, singularly  beautiful  and  touching.  It  partook,  per- 
haps, a  little  of  the  somewhat  excessive  vivacity  which 
characterized  all  her  sentiments ;  *  it  seems  in  its  im- 
pressive fervor  to  have  resembled  rather  the  devotion  of 
a  woman  to  a  lover  she  adores,  than  the  calm  and  tender 
love  of  a  daughter  to  a  cherished  parent.  Indeed  she 
more  than  once,  in  her  writings,  regrets  that  they  be- 
longed to  different  generations,  and  declares  that  Keeker 
was  the  only  man  she  had  ever  known  to  whom  she 
could  have  consecrated  her  life. 

At  the  age  of  twenty  she  had  attained  a  dangerous 
reputation  as  a  wit  and  a  prodigy ;  she  was  passionately 
fond  of  the  brilliant  society  in  which  she  lived,  but  set 
at  nought  its  restraints,  and  trampled  on  its  convention- 
alities and  hiens^cniccs  in  a  style  that  was  then  rare, 
especially  among  young  M-omen,  but  which  the  men  for- 
gave in  consideration  of  her  genius,  and  the  women  in 
consideration  of  her  ugliness.  Her  intellect  was  preter- 
iiaturally  developed,  but  her  heart  seems  not  to  have 
been  touched ;  she  WTote  and  spoke  of  love  with  earnest- 
ness, Avith  grace,  even  with  insight,  —  but  as  a  subject 
of  speculation  and  delineation  only,  not  of  deep  and  wo- 
ful  experience.     She  made  a  manage  dc  convenancc  with 

*  "VVe  remember  to  have  heard  a  rather  amusing  exemplification  of  this. 
AVhilst  living  at  Coppet,  a  coachman  of  her  father's  had  overturned 
some  of  his  guests,  who,  however,  weie  not  injured.  "When  she  heard 
of  it  her  first  thought  was,  "  Mon  Dieu  !  il  aura  pu  verser  ?«o«  j^trc." 
She  rang  the  bell,  and  .summoned  the  unfortunate  coachman  instantly  to 
her  presence.  As  soon  as  he  appeared,  she  ojiened  out  upon  the  aston- 
ished victim  thus:  "  Fran(;ois  !  savez-vous  que  je  siiis  une  femme  d'es- 
]irit  ? "  Poor  Francois,  not  knowing  whether  he  stood  on  his  head  or 
his  tail,  could  only  answer  by  a  bewildered  stare.  "  Sachez,  done  "  (she 
continued),  "  sachez  done  que  j'ai  de  I'esprit  —  beaucoup  d'e.sprit — in- 
finiment  de  I'esprit :  —  eh  bien  !  tout  I'esprit  que  j'ai  je  I'emploiei-ai  a 
vous  f\iire  passer  votre  vie  dans  un  cacliot  si  javiais  vous  verscz  mon 
pireJ" 


MADAJIE  DE  STAEL.  21 

as  cool  and  business-like  an  indifference  as  if  she  had 
been  the  most  cold  and  phlegmatic  of  women.  She  was 
a  great  heiress,  and  Eric  Baron  de  Stael  was  a  handsome 
man,  of  noble  birth  and  good  character.  The  considera- 
tion which  appears  to  have  chiefly  decided  the  choice, 
both  of  herself  and  her  parents,  was  that  he  was  an 
attache  to  the  Swedish  Embassy,  was  to  become  Ambas- 
sador himself,  and  was  expected  to  reside  iJcrmancntbf  in 
Paris.  Parisian  society  had  now  become,  what  it  always 
remained,  an  absolute  necessity  of  existence  to  Mademoi- 
selle Necker ;  and  in  the  arrangement  she  now  made,  she 
married  it  rather  than  the  Baron.  She  never  seems  to 
have  dreamed  of  domestic  happiness,  or  at  least  of  any 
satisfaction  of  the  heart,  in  this  deliberate  selection  of  a 
husband ;  nor,  we  are  bound  to  say,  does  she  ever  com- 
plain of  not  having  found  what  she  did  not  seek.  She 
probably  solaced  herself  by  the  proverli,  —  true  enougli, 
but  we  should  have  thought  exquisitely  sad  to  a  young 
and  ardent  girl  of  twenty,  —  "  Paris  est  le  lieu  du  monde 
oil  Ton  se  passe  le  mieux  de  bonheur."  After  the  cere- 
mony, we  hear  very  little  of  M.  de  Stael,  either  from  his 
wife  or  her  friends.  Sometimes  circumstances  separate 
them ;  sometimes  reunite  them  ;  they  seem  to  have  lived 
harmoniously,  but  as  comfortably  when  apart  as  when 
together.  Her  husband  seems  to  have  been  tacitly  ig- 
nored, except  in  as  far  as  he  made  her  "  Madame  I'Am- 
bassadrice." 

The  three  years  that  followed  her  marriage  Avere 
probably  the  happiest  of  her  life.  She  was  in  Paris,  the 
centre  of  a  varied  and  brilliant  society,  where  she  could 
not  only  enjoy  intercourse  with  all  the  greatest  and  most 
celebrated  men  of  that  remarkable  epoch,  but  could  give 
free  scope  to  those  wonderful  and  somewhat  redundant 
convereational  powers  which  were  at  all  times  her  great- 
est distinction.  AVe  can  well  imagine  that  her  singular 
union  of  brilliant  fancy,  solid  reflection,  and  Frencli 
vivacity,  must  have  made  her,  in  spite  of  the  entire  ab- 
sence of  personal  beauty,  one  of  the  most  attractive  and 
fascinating  of  women.     The  times  too  were  beyond  all 


22  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

otliers  pregnant  with  that  'strange  excitement  wliich 
gives  to  social  intercourse  its  most  vivid  charm.  Every- 
Avliere  tlie  minds  of  men  were  stirred  to  their  inmost 
depths ;  the  deei)est  interests  were  daily  under  discus- 
sion ;  the  grandest  events  were  evidently  struggling  to- 
wards tlieir  birth  ;  the  greatest  intellects  were  bracing  up 
their  energies  for  a  struggle  "  such  as  had  not  been  seen 
since  the  world  was";  the  wildest  hopes,  the  maddest 
l)rospects,  the  most  sombre  terrors,  were  agitating  society 
in  turn  ;  some  dreamed  of  the  regeneration  of  tlie  world, 
—  days  of  halcyon  bliss,  —  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and 
honey ;  some  dreaded  a  convulsion,  a  chaos,  a  final  and 
irrecoverable  catastrophe ;  everything  was  hurrying  on- 
ward to  the  grand  denouement ;  —  and  of  this  denouement 
Paris  was  to  be  the  theatre,  and  Necker,  the  father  of  our 
heroine,  the  guiding  and  presiding  genius.  All  her  powers 
were  aroused,  and  all  her  feelings  stimulated  to  the  utter- 
most ;  she  visited,  she  talked,  she  intrigued,  she  wrote  ;  — 
her  first  literary  performance,  the  Lcttres  svr  Ho^isseau, 
belongs  to  this  date.  They  are  brilliant  and  warm  in  style; 
but  tlieir  tone  is  that  of  immaturity. 

These  days  soon  passed.  Then  followed  the  Eeign  of 
Terror.  And  now  it  was  that  all  the  sterling  cpialities  of 
IMadame  de  Stael's  character  came  forth.  Her  feelings 
of  disappointment  and  disgust  must  have  been  more  vivid 
than  those  of  most,  for  her  hopes  had  been  pre-eminently 
sanguine,  and  her  confidence  in  her  father's  powers  and 
destiny  unbounded.  Xow  all  was  lost :  her  father  was 
discarded,  her  monarch  slain,  her  society  scattered  and 
decimated,  and  Paris  had  lost  all  its  charms.  Still  she 
remained ;  as  Necker's  daughter  she  was  still  beloved  by 
many  among  tlie  people ;  as  the  wife  of  an  Ambassador 
she  was  as  inviolable  as  any  one  could  be  in  those  dread- 
ful days.  "With  indomitable  courage,  with  the  most 
daring  and  untiring  zeal,  and  the  most  truly  feminine 
devotion,  she  made  use  of  both  her  titles  and  influence 
to  aid  the  escape  of  her  friends,  and  to  save  and  succor 
the  endangered.  She  succeeded  in  persuading  to  tem- 
porary mercy  some  of  the  most  ferocious  of  the  re  vol  u- 


MADAME  DE  STAEL.  23 

tionary  chiefs ;  she  concealed  some  of  the  menaced 
emigres  in  her  house ;  and  it  was  not  till  she  had  ex- 
hausted all  her  resources,  and  incurred  serious  peril  to 
herself  and  her  children,  tlmt  she  followed  her  friends 
into  exile.  Her  husband, .  whose  diplomatic  character 
was  suspended  for  a  while,  remained  in  Holland,  to  l)e 
ready  to  resume  his  functions  at  the  first  favorable 
opening.  Madame  de  Stael  joined  her  friends  in  Eng- 
land, and  established  herself  in  a  small  house  near  Eich- 
mond,  where  an  agreeable  society  soon  gathered  round 
her,  consisting,  besides  a  few  English,  of  M.  de  Talley- 
rand, M.  de  Xarbonne  (whose  life  she  had  saved  by  con- 
cealing him  in  her  house,  and  then  dismissing  him  witli 
a  false  passport),  M.  d'Arblay  (who  afterwards  married 
j\Iiss  Burney),  and  one  or  two  female  friends.  Here,  in 
spite  of  poverty,  exile,  and  the  mortification  of  failure, 
and  the  fearful  tidings  which  reached  them  by  nearly 
every  post,  they  continued  to  lead  a  cheerful  and  not  un- 
profitable life. 

"  Their  funds "  (says  Miss  Non'is)  "  were  not  in  the  most 
flourishing  condition  ;  and  the  prospect  of  war  did  not  favor 
the  continuance  of  such  remittances  as  they  might  otherwise 
hope  to  get ;  yet  their  national  gayety  seems  to  have  boi-ne 
them  through  their  difficulties  with  considerable  credit  to 
themselves.  We  are  told  that  this  little  party  could  afford  to 
purchase  only  one  small  carriage,  which  took  two  persons, 
and  that  M.  de  Xarbonne  and  Talleyrand  alternately  assumed 
the  post  of  footman  as  they  rode  about  to  see  the  country, 
removing  the  glass  from  the  back  of  the  coach  in  order  to 
join  in  the  conversation  of  those  within. 

"  The  neighborhood  they  had  clioien  for  their  residence  is 
one  naturally  beautiful,  and  so  characteristically  English  as 
to  seem  rac}''  and  fresh  to  the  e^-e  of  a  foreigner ;  grateful  to 
those  storm-tossed  spirits  must  have  been  the  scenes  of 
rui-al  peace  whicli  there  spi'ead  about  them;  and  still  more 
grateful  the  kindly  English  hospitality  which  awaited  them. 
It  was,  indeed,  a  new  element  infused  into  the  half-city,  half- 
rural  life  of  the  then  courtly  suburb ;  and  almost  every  day 
Some  fresh  comer  brouiiht  new  tidings  of  troul)le,  and  desola- 
tion, and  narrow  escapes."  —  p.  164. 


24  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

The  harmony  of  this  little  coterie  continued  witliout 
interruption :  "  tlie  kindly  hospitality"  did  not.  The  scnn- 
dal-lovers  of  England  began  to  think  evil  tilings,  and  to 
whisper  evil  thoughts  respecting  the  tender  friendship 
that  subsisted  between  Madame  de  Stael  and  jNl.  de  Nar- 
boinie  ;  they  fancied  it  necessary  to  frown  upon  an  affec- 
tion which  was  alien  to  their  national  habits,  and  some  of 
them.  Miss  Burney  among  the  rest,  began  to  look  coldly 
upon  the  colony  of  foreigners,  wdio  ventured  to  live  in 
England  as  naturally  and  simply  as  they  could  have  done 
in  France.  There  was  no  foundation  whatever  for  the 
vulgar  insinuations  that  were  whispered  about ;  but  their 
existence  can  scarcely  excite  surprise.  For  in  this  coun- 
try we  do  not  understand  that  man  and  woman,  uncon- 
nected by  family  ties,  can  be  friends  without  being  lovers  ; 
and  what  we  do  not  understand  it  is  our  cnstom  invariably 
to  condemn.  If  Ave  ever  sanction  such  connections,  it  is 
on  the  tacit  condition  that  the  affection  shall  be  limited 
in  its  scope,  untender  in  its  character,  and  reserved  in  its 
manifestations.  Devoted  friendship,  such  as  that  whicli 
subsisted  between  Gibbon  and  Madame  Necker,  IM.  de 
Narbonne  and  Madame  de  Stael,  Chateaubriand  and 
Madame  Eecamier,*  is  to  us  a  mystery  and  offence.  Yet 
it  is  impossible  to  read  without  the  deepest  sympathy  the 
description  of  Chateaubriand,  wheeled  into  the  drawing- 
room  of  Madame  Eecamier,  when  no  longer  able  to  walk 
thither,  but  unable  to  forego  the  accustomed  society  where 
lie  had  s[)ent  every  evening  for  so  many  happy  and  event- 
ful years,  —  and  of  the  touching  attentions  of  his  friend 
to  cheer  his  sinking  spirits,  and  sustain  and  stimulate  his 
failing  faculties.  INIadame  de  Stael  herself  has  left  us  a 
picture  of  a  somewhat  similar  friendship, —  that  of  the 
Prince  Castel-forte  for  Corinne. 

AVhen  the  re-establishment  of  something  like  regular 


*  To  all  who  wi.sli  to  comprehend  this  peculiar  and  most  beautiful 
phase  of  French  character,  we  earnestly  reconmicnd  a  very  interesting 
and  aftectionate  tribute  to  the  memory  of  IStadamo  Kf'camier,  Avhicli 
appeared  in  Fraser's  Magazine,  for  September,  1849,  from  the  pen  of 
Mrs.  Austin. 


MADAME   DE  STAEL.  25 

government  in  France  in  1795  permitted  the  Swedish 
Ambassador  to  resume  his  functions,  Madame  de  Staiil 
returned  to  Paris,  and  passed  her  time  very  happily  for 
the  next  four  years,  alternately  there  and  with  her  father  at 
Coppet.  Then  came  the  establishment  of  the  Napoleonic 
rule,  and  with  that  ended  Madame  de  Stael's  peace  and 
enjoyment  for  nearly  fifteen  years.  Buonaparte  disliked 
lier,  feared  her,  persecuted  her,  exiled  her,  and  bullied  and 
banished  every  one  wlio  paid  her  any  attentions,  or  showed 
her  any  kindness.  He  first  prohibited  her  residence  in 
Paris,  then  in  France ;  and  exile  from  her  native  land, 
and  from  the  scene  of  her  social  pleasures  and  social 
triumphs,  was  to  her  almost  as  dreadful  as  a  sentence  of 
death.  Of  course  she  repaid  her  tyrannical  persecutor  in 
his  own  coin,  and  with  liberal  interest.  AVe  need  not 
seek  far  for  the  explanation  of  their  mutual  animosity. 
They  were  antipathic  in  their  views,  in  their  positions,  in 
every  feeling  of  their  hearts,  in  every  fibre  of  their 
cliaracters.  Madame  de  Stael  was  a  passionate  lover  of 
constitutional  liberty ;  Buonaparte  was  bent  upon  its 
overthrow.  The  brilliancy  and  varied  attractions  of 
!Madame  de  Stael's  society  made  her  an  actual  jmissance 
in  Paris ;  and  Buonaparte  hated  rivalry,  and  could  "  bear 
no  brother  near  the  throne."  He  loved  incense  and  hom- 
age ;  and,  after  the  18th  Brumaire,  she  would  render  him 
neither.  She  would  not  flatter  him,  and  he  could  not  in 
liis  heart  despise  her  as  he  desired  to  do,  and  as  he  wished 
it  to  be  imagined  that  he  did.  Then,  whenever  they  met 
in  society  she  bored  him  dreadfully,  and  he  snubbed  her 
I'udely.  He  was  cold  and  reserved,  —  she  was  vehement 
and  impulsive.  She  stigmatized  him  as  an  enemy  to 
rational  freedom ;  and  he  pronounced  her  to  be  an  in- 
triguing and  exaltee  woman.  They  both  loved  influence 
dearly  ;  and  neither  would  succumb  to  the  influence  of 
the  other.  All  tlie  Emperor's  power  and  prestige  could 
not  extort  from  the  woman  one  instant  of  submission  or 
applause,  —  all  the  woman's  weapons  of  fascination  and 
persuasion  were  wasted  and  blunted  on  the  impenetrable 
cuirass  of  the  despot.     Their  hatred  was  something' in- 

2 


26  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

stinctive  and  almost  physical,  —  as  natural  and  incnraLle 
as  tliat  of  cat  and  dot^.  ]\I,'idame  de  .Stael  has  left  a  very 
graphic  description  of  the  impression  he  produced  upon 
lier :  — 

"  Loin  dc  me  rassurcr,  en  voyant  Buonaparte  plus  souvent 
il  m'iiitimidsiit  chaque  jour  davantage.  Je  sentais  confme- 
went  qii  aucune emotion ducoenr  ne  pouvait  cif/ir  sur  lui.  [Hinc 
ilhe  liicrj-mse  :  the  lady  felt  herself  disarmed  before  the  man 
of  cold  heart.]  II  regarde  une  creature  humaiue  commc  un 
fait  on  comma  une  chose,  mais  non  comme  un  sembhihle. 
II  ne  hait  pas  plus  qnil  n'aime ;  il  n'y  a  que  lui  pour  lui ; 
tout  le  reate  des  creatures  sont  des  chififres.  La  force  de  sa 
volenti  consiste  dans  I'imperturbable  calcul  de  son  ^goisme. 
....  Ses  succes  tiennent  autant  aux  qualites  qui  lui  man- 
quent,  qu'aux  talents  qu'il  possede.  Ni  la  piti6,  ni  I'attrait, 
ni  la  religion,  ni  I'attachement  a  une  idee  quelconque,  ne  sau- 
raient  le  detourner  de  sa  direction  pinncipale.  Chaque  fois 
que  je  I'entendais  parler,  j'etais  frapp^e  de  sa  superiorite  ; 
elle  n'avait  pourtant  aucun  rapport  avec  celle  des  honnnes 
instruits  et  cidtives  par  I'etude  ou  la  societe,  tels  que  I'An- 
gleterre  et  la  France  peuvent  en  offrir  des  exemples.  Mais 
ses  discours  indiquaient  le  tact  des  circonstances,  comme 
le  chassetir  a  celui  de  sa  proie.  Quelquefois  il  racontait  les 
faits  pohtiques  et  militaires  de  sa  Tie  d'une  faQon  tres-int^- 
ressante ;  il  avait  meme,  dans  les  recits  qui  permettaieut  la 
gaiete,  un  pen  de  I'imagination  italienne.  Cependant  rien  ne 
pouvait  triomplier  de  mon  ^loignement  pour  ce  que  j'aper- 
cevais  en  lui.  Je  sentais  dans  son  ame  vne  epee  froide  et 
tranchante  qui  glar^ait  en  blessnnt :  je  sentais  dans  son  es- 
prit une  ironie  profonde  a  laquelle  rien  de  grand  ni  de 
beau,  pas  meme  sa  propre  gloire,  ne  pouvait  ^chapper  ;  car  il 
meprisait  la  nation  dont  il  voulait  les  suffrages  :  et  nulle  etin- 
celle  d'enthousiasme  ne  se  melait  a  son  besoin  d'etonner  I'es- 
p^ce  humaine. 

"  Ce  fut  dans  I'intervalle  eutre  le  retour  de  Buonaparte 
[d'ltalie]  et  son  depart  pour  I'Egj'pte,  c'est  ^  dire,  vers  la  fin 
de  1797,  que  je  le  vis  ])lasieurs  fois  a  Paris  ;  et  jamais  la  dif- 
ficulte  de  rei^nrer  que  feprortvais  en  sa  presence  ne  put  se  dis- 
siper.  J'etais  un  jour  a  table  eutre  lui  et  i'Abb^  Sieves  :  sin- 
guli^re  situation,  si  j'avais  pu  pr^voir  Tavenir  !  J'examinais 
avec  attention  la  figure  de  Buonaparte  ■,  niais  chaque  fois  qu'il 


MADAME   DE  STAl^L.  27 

decouvrait  en  moi  des  regards  observateurs,  il  avait  I'art  d'oter 
a  ses  yeux  toute  expression,  comme  s'ils  fussent  deveniis  do 
marbre.  Son  visage  etait  alors  immobile,  excepte  un  sourire 
vague  qu'il  pla9ait  sur  ses  levres  a  tout  hasard,  pour  de- 
router  quiconque  voudrait  observer  les  sigues  exterieures 
de  sa  peusee."  * 

During  her  fourteen  years  of  exile,  Madame  de  Stael 
led  a  wandering-  life ;  sometimes  residing  at  Coppet ;  ever 
and  anon  returning  for  a  short  time  to  France,  in  hopes 
of  being  allowed  to  remain  there  unmolested,  but  soon 
receiving  a  new  oi-der  to  quit.  She  visited  Germany 
twice,  Italy  once,  and  at  length  reached  England,  by  way 
of  Eussia,  in  1812.  It  was  at  this  period  of  her  life  that 
she  produced  the  works  which  have  immortalized  her, — • 
De  la  Litterature,  De  V Allcmagne,  and  Corinne,  and  en- 
joyed intercourse  with  the  most  celebrated  men  of  Eu- 
rope. Nevertheless  they  were  years  of  great  wretchedness 
to  her;  the  charms  of  Parisian  society ,-|- in  wliich  she 
lived,  and  moved,  and  had  her  being,  were  forbidden  to 
her ;  she  was  subjected  to  the  most  annoying  and  petty, 
as  well  as  to  the  most  bitter  and  cruel,  persecutions ; 
one  by  one  her  friends  were  prevented  from  visiting  her, 
or  punished  with  exile  and  disgrace  if  they  did  visit  her ; 
she  was  reduced  nearly  to  solitude,  —  a  state  whitih  she 
herself  describes  as,  to  a  woman  of  her  vivacious  feelings 
and  irrepressible  hcsoin  d'epanchement,  almost  worse  than 

*  Considerations  sur  la  Revolution  rran9aise,  II.  187. 

+  "  Je  ne  dissimule  point  que  le^  sejour  de  Paris  m'a  toujours  seml)Ie 
le  plus  agreable  de  tous  :  j'y  suis  nee  ;  j'y  ai  passe  nion  enfance  et  ma 
premiere  jeunesse  ;  la  generation  qui  a  connu  mon  pere,  les  amis  qui  ont 
traverse  avec  nous  les  perils  de  la  Revolution,  c'est  \k  seulement  que  je 
puis  les  retrouver.  Get  amour  de  la  patrie  qui  a  saisi  les  ames  les  plus 
fortes,  s'empare  plus  vivement  encore  de  nous  quand  les  gouts  de  I'esprit 
se  trouvent  reunis  aux  afFectioiis  du  cceur  et  aux  habitudes  de  I'imagina- 
tion.  La  conversation  Fran^aise  n'existe  qu'a  Paris,  et  la  conversation 
a  ete,  depuis  mon  enfance,  mon  plus  grand  plaisir.  J'eprouvais  une  telli> 
douleur  a  la  crainte  d'etre  privee  de  ce  sejour,  que  ma  raison  ne  pouvait 
rien  contre  elle.  J'etais  alors  dans  toute  la  vivacite  de  la  vie,  et  c'est 
precisement  le  besoin  des  jouissances  animees  qui  conduit  le  plus  sou- 
vent  au  desespoir,  car  il  rend  la  resignation  bien  difficile,  et  sans  clle 
on  ne  pent  supporter  les  vicissitudes  de  I'existence."  —  Dix  Annies 
d'Exil,  p.  61. 


28  LITERAHY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

death*  The  description  of  her  sufferings  during  this 
part  of  her  life,  which  she  gives  iu  her  Dix  Annees 
d'Exil,  renders  that  book  one  of  the  most  harassing  and 
l^ainful  we  ever  read  ;  and  when  we  add  to  all  that  Buo- 
naparte made  her  endure,  the  recollection  of  the  incalcu- 
lable amount  of  individual  miscliief  and  anguish  which  lie 
intiicted  on  the  two  thousand  peaceful  English  travellers, 
whom  he  seized  in  defiance  of  all  law  and  justice,  and 
detained  for  twelve  of  the  best  years  of  their  life  in 
French  prisons,  we  are  compelled  to  feel  that  the  irri- 
tating torments  and  privations  which  he  was  himself 
afterwards  to  undergo  at  St.  Helena,  —  unworthy  and 
oppressive  as  they  sometimes  were,  —  were  nothing  but 
a  well-proportioned  and  richly  merited  retribution. 

Several  of  the  great  men  whose  society  she  enjoyed 
during  these  memorable  years  of  wandering  have  leit  on 
record  their  impression  of  her  genius  and  manners  ;  and 
it  is  curious  to  observe  how  uniform  and  self-consistent 
this  impression  everywhere  was.  She  seems  to  have  ex- 
cited precisely  the  same  emotions  in  the  minds  both  of 
German  literati  and  of  English  politicians,  —  vast  admira- 
tion and  not  a  little  fatigue.  Her  conversation  was  bril- 
liant iu  the  extreme,  but  apt  to  become  monologue  and 
declamation.  She  was  too  vivacious  for  any  but  French- 
men :  her  intellect  M'as  ahvays  in  a  state  of  restless  and 
vehement  activity  ;  she  seemed  to  need  no  relaxation,  and 
to  permit  no  repose.'f-     In  spite  of  her  great  knowledge, 

*  "  On  s'etonnera  peut-etre  que  je  compare  I'exil  a  la  mort  ;  mais  de 
grands  hommes  de  I'antiquite  et  des  temps  modernes  ont  succoniLe  a 
cette  peine.  On  rencontre  plus  de  braves  centre  I'echafauds  que  contre 
la  ])erte  de  sa  patrie."  —  Ibid.,  p.  79. 

She  saj's  elsewhere  :  "  Les  echafauds  pen  vent  a  la  fin  reveiller  le 
courage  ;  mais  les  chagrins  domestiques  de  tout  genre,  resultat  du  hannis- 
f  ement,  affaiblissent  la  resistance,  et  portent  seulement  h.  redouter  la 
disgrace  du  souverain  qui  peut  vous  infliger  une  existence  si  mal- 
heureuse." —  Consideratimis  sur,  etc.,  II.  285. 

t  JIadame  de  Stael's  principal  enjoyment  was  always  in  society  ;  she 
l;ad  little  relish  for,  or  appreciation  ot,  the  beauties  of  natiire.  "0  for 
the  rivulet  in  the  Kue  du  Bac  !  "  she  exclaimed,  when  some  one  pointed 
out  to  her  the  glorious  Lake  of  Geneva,  ilany  years  later  she  said  to 
M.  Mole,  "Si  ce  n'etait  le  respect  humain,  jc  ')t'ouvrirais pas  ma  fcneire 
]Mur  voir  la  baie  de  Kaples  ;  tandis  que  je  lerais  cinq  cents  lieues  pour 
aller  causer  avec  un  homme  d'esprit." 


MADAJIE  DE  STAEL.  29 

her  profound  and  sagacious  reflections,  her  spaskling  wit, 
and  her  singular  eloquence,  she  nearly  always  ended  by 
wearying  even  her  most  admiring  auditors  :  she  left  them 
no  peace  ;  she  kept  them  on  the  stretch ;  she  ran  them 
out  of  breath.  And  there  were  few  of  them  who  were 
not  in  a  condition  to  relish  the  piquant  mot  of  Talley- 
rand, who,  when  some  one  hinted  surprise  that  he  who 
had  enjoyed  the  intimacy  of  such  a  genius  as  IMadame 
de  Stael  could  find  pleasure  in  the  society  of  such  a  con- 
trast to  her  as  ^Madame  Grant,  answered  in  that  delib- 
erate and  gentle  voice  which  gave  point  to  all  his  sharpest 
sayings,  "  II  faut  avoir  aime  IMadame  de  Stael  pour  sa- 
vourer  le  bonheur  d'aimer  une  bete  ! "  Schiller,  whom  she 
infested  dreadfully  during  her  stay  in  Weimar  in  1803  -  4, 
writes  thus  to  Goethe  :  — 

"  Madame  de  Stael  you  will  find  quite  as  you  have,  f^  priori, 
construed  her :  she  is  all  of  a  piece  ;  there  is  no  adventi- 
tious, false,  pathological  speck  m  her.  Hereby  it  is  that,  not- 
Avith standing  the  immeasurable  difference  in  temper  and 
thought,  one  is  perfectly  at  ease  with  her,  can  hear  all  from 
her*  and  say  all  to  her.  She  represents  French  culture  in  its 
purity,  and  imder  a  most  interesting  aspect.  In  all  that  we 
name  philosophy,  therefore  in  all  highest  and  ultimate  ques- 
tions, one  is  at  issue  with  her,  and  remains  so  in  spite  of  all 
arguing.  But  her  nature,  her  feeling,  is  better  than  her 
metaphysics ;  and  her  fine  understanding  rises  to  the  rank  of 
genius.  She  insists  on  explaining  everything,  on  seeing  into 
it,  measuring  it ;  she  allows  nothing  dark,  inaccessible ;  whither- 
soever her  torch  cannot  throw  its  light,  there  nothing  exists 
for  her.  Hence  follows  an  aversion,  a  horror,  for  the  transcen- 
dental philosophy,  which  in  her  view  leads  to  mysticism  and 
siiperstition.  This  is  the  carbonic  gas  in  which  she  dies.  For 
what  we  call  poetry  there  is  no  sense  in  her ;  for  in  such  works 
it  is  only  the  passionate,  the  oratorical,  and  the  intellectual 
that  she  can  appreciate  :  yet  she  will  endure  no  falsehood 
there,  only  does  not  always  recogiiize  the  true. 

"  You  will  infer  from  these  few  words  that  the  clearness, 
decidedness,  and  rich  vivacity  of  her  nature  cannot  but  affect 
one  favorably.  Ones  only  grievance  is  the  altogether  unprecedented 
glibness  of  her  tongue :  you  must  make  yourself  all  ear  if  you 
would  follow  her." 


30  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

A  niontli  afterwards  lie  is  beginning  to  feel  weary  and 

satiated. 

"  Yoni'  exposition"  (he  writes  to  Goethe)  "has  refreshed 
me  and  nourislied  me.  It  is  liighly  proper  that  by  sucli  an 
act  at  this  time,   yon    express  your  ccntrndiction  of  our  im- 

portitnnte  visitreKS  :  the  cnse  would  gi'ow  intolerable  else 

IkMUi;  sick  at  present,  and  j^loomy,  it  seems  to  me  impossilile 

tliat  I  should  ever  hold  such  discourses  again Had  she 

taken  lesson  of  Jean  Paid,  she  would  not  have  stayed  so  long 
in  Weimar  :  let  her  try  it  for  other  three  weeks  at  her  peril." 

Two  months  later  he  closes  his  notices  of  the  lady  by 
this  merciless  sarcasm  :  "  I  have  not  been  at  all  well : 
the  weather  is  not  kind  to  me  ;  besides,  ever  since  the  clc~ 
2')r(rture  of  Madcivic,  I  have  felt  no  othcrvAse  than  as  if  I 
had  risen  from  a  severe  sickness." 

Goethe's  account  of  her  is  somewhat  more  deliberate 
and  patient,  but  veiy  similar  in  the  main.  He  writes  in 
his  Dicldung  und  Wahrlicit :  — 

"  The  great  qualities  of  this  high-thinking  and  high-feeling 
axithoress  lie  in  the  view  of  every  one  ;  and  the  results  of  her 
jouniey  through  Germany  testify  sufficiently  how  she  applied 
her  time  thei'e.  Her  objects  were  manifold  :  she  wished  to 
know  Weimar,  — to  gain  accurate  acquaintance  with  its  moral, 
social,  literary  aspects,  and  whatever  else  it  offered  ;  further, 
however,  she  herself  also  wished  to  be  known  ;  and  endeavored, 
therefore,  to  give  her  own  views  currency,  no  less  than  to 
search  out  our  mode  of  thouglit.  Neither  coidd  she  rest 
satisfied  even  here  :  she  must  also  work  upon  the  senses,  upon 
the  feelings,  upon  the  spirit  ;  must  strive  to  awaken  a  certain 
activity  or  vivacity,  with  the  want  of  which  she  reproached 
lis. 

"  TInxnnq  no  notion  of  ti'hat  D.uty  means,  and  to  what  a  silent, 
collected  postuj'e  he  that  undertakes  it  must  restrict  himself, 
she  was  evermore  for  striking  in,  for  instantaneoush*  produ- 
cing an  effect.  In  society,  she  required  there  to  be  constant 
talking  and  discom'sing 

"  To  phdosopliize  in  society,  means  to  talk  with  vivacity 
aV)out  insoluble  problems.  This  washer  peculiar  pleasure  and 
])nssi(m.  Naturally,  too,  she  was  wont  to  carry  it,  in  such 
speaking  and  counter-speaking,  up  to  those  concerns  of  thought 


MADAME  DE  STAEL.  31 


and  sentiment  wliieh  properly  should  not  be  spoken  of,  except 
between  God  and  the  individual.  Here,  moreover,  as  woman 
and  Frenchwoman,  she  had  the  habit  of  sticking  fast  on  main 
positions,  and,  as  it  were,  not  hearing  Tightly  what  the  other 
said.  Bv  all  these  things  the  evil  spirit  was  awakened  in  me, 
so  that  1  would  treat  whatever  was  advanced  no  otherwise 
than  dialecticallj  and  problematically,  and  often  by  stift- 
necked  contradictions  brought  her  to  despair;  when  she  for 
the  first  time  grew  rightly  amiable,  and  in  the  most  brilliant 
manner  exhibited  her  talent  of  thinking  and  replying. 

"  ]\Iore  than  once  I  had  regular  dialogues  with  her,  our- 
selves two ;  in  which  likewise,  however,  she  was  burdensome, 
according  to  her  fashion  ;  never  granting,  on  the  most  important 
topics,  a  moment  of  rejlection,  but  passionately  demanding  that 
we  should  despatch  the  deepest  concerns,  the  weiglitiest  oc- 
currences, as  lightly  as  if  it  were  a  game  at  shuttlecock."  * 

Some  years  after  her  first  visit  to  Germany,  she  came 
to  England,  and  Sir  James  Macldntosh,  who  saw  much  of 
her,  thus  describes  her:  — 

"  On  my  return  I  found  the  whole  foshionable  and  literary 
worjd  occupied  with  Madame  de  Stael,  the  most  celebrated 

woman  of  this  or  perhaps  am^  age She  treats  me  as  the 

person  whom  she  most  delights  to  honor:  T  am  generally  ordered 
with  her  to  dinner,  as  one  orders  beans  and  bacon ;  I  have,  in 
consequence,  dined  with  her  at  the  houses  of  almost  all  the 
Cabinet  Ministers.  She  is  one  of  the  few  persons  who  surpass 
expectation ;  she  has  every  soi't  of  talent,  and  would  be  uni- 
versally popular  if,  in  society,  she  were  to  confine  herself  to 
her  inferior  talents,  —  pleasantry,  anecdote,  and  literature,  — 
w-hich  are  so  much  more  suited  to  conversation  than  her  elo- 
quence and  genius. "t 

Lord  Byron  also  saw  much  of  her  hoth  in  London  in 
1813  and  at  Diodati  in  1816.  In  the  notes  to  the  fourth 
canto  of  Childe  Harold,  he  records  her  virtues  and  attrac- 
tions in  a  piece  of  elaborate  fine  writing,  fit  only  for  a 

*  It  is  interesting,  after  reading  what  Schiller  and  Goethe  thought  of 
?.Iadanie  de  Stael,  to  read  what  the  lady,  in  lier  turn,  thought  of  them 
(See  her  U AUemagiie,  Part  II.  ch.  vii.  and  viii.).  She  was  more  compli- 
uieutary  than  the  gentlemen. 

+  i^Jenioirs  of  Mackintosh,  II.  264. 


32  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

tombstone,  and  which  would  be  pronounced  inflated  and 
tasteless  even  there.  In  his  Diary  and  Correspondence, 
however,  we  meet  with  many  hasty  references  to  her,  not 
intended  for  the  public  eye,  and  therefore  more  likely  to 
convey  his  genuine  impressions.  "  I  saw  Curran  pre- 
sented to  Madame  de  Stael  at  Mackintosh's;  it  was  the 
grand  confluence  of  the  Illione  and  the  Saone  ;  they  were 
both  so  damned  ugly  that  I  could  not  help  wondering 
how  the  best  intellects  of  France  and  Ireland  could  have 

taken  up  respectively  such  residences Madame 

de  Statil-Holstein  has  lost  one  of  her  young  barons,  who 
has  been  carbonadoed  by  a  vile  Teutonic  adjutant, — 
kilt  and  killed  in  a  coffee-house  at  Scrawsenhausen. 
Corinne  is,  of  course,  what  all  mothers  must  be ;  but 
will,  I  venture  to  prophesy,  do  what  few  mothers  could, 
—  write  an  essay  upon  it.  She  cannot  exist  without  a 
grievance  and  somebody  to  see  or  read  how  much  grief 

becomes    her To-day   I  dine    with    INIackintosh 

and  Mrs.  Stale  (as  John  Bull  may  be  pleased  to  denomi- 
nate Corinne),  whom  I  saw  last  night  at  Covent  Gar- 
den, yawning  over  the  humor  of  Falstaff.  ....  To-day 
(Tuesday)  a  very  pretty  billet  from  Madame  la  Baronne 
de  Stael-Holstein.  She  is  pleased  to  be  much  pleased 
with  my  mention  of  her  and  her  last  work  in  my  notes, 
I  spoke  as  I  thought.  Her  works  are  my  delight,  and 
so  is  she  herself,  —  for  half  an  hour.  But  she  is  a 
woman  by  herself,  and  has  done  more  intellectually  than 
all  the  rest  of  them  together ;  she  ought  to  have  been  a 

man Asked    for  Wednesday  to  dine  and  meet 

the  Stael.  I  don't  much  like  it ;  she  always  talks  of  my- 
self or  herself,  and  I  am  not  (except  in  soliloquy,  as  now) 
much  enamoured  of  either  subject, —  especially  of  one's 
works.  What  the  devil  sliall  I  say  about  Be  VAUc- 
magne  ?  I  like  it  prodigiously ;  but  unless  I  can  twist 
my  admiration  into  some  fantastical  expression,  she 
won't  believe  me  ;  and  I  know  by  experience  that  I  shall 

be  overwhelmed  by  fine  things  about  rhyme,  etc 

The  Stael  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  and  less 
loquacious  than  heretofore.     We   are   now  very  good 


MADAME  DE  STAEL.  33 

friends ;  though  she  asked  Lady  Melbourne  whether  I 
really  had  any  honJwmmie.  She  might  as  well  have 
asked  that  question  before  she  told  C.  L.  'c'est  un 
demon.'  True  enough,  but  rather  premature,  for  she 
could  not  have  found  it  out."  When  in  Switzerland,  he 
wrote :  "  Madame  de  Stael  has  made  Coppet  as  agreea- 
ble as  society  and  talent  can  make  any  place  on  earth. 
....  She  was  a  good  woman  at  heart,  and  the  clever- 
est at  bottom,  but  spoilt  by  a  wish  to  be  —  she  knew  not 
what.  In  her  own  house  she  was  amiable ;  in  any  other 
person's  you  wished  her  gone,  and  in  her  own  again." 

These  extracts  will  serve  to  show  what  Madame  de 
Stael  was  in  miscellaneous  society ;  in  the  more  intimate 
relations  of  life  few  persons  were  ever  more  seriously  or 
steadfastly  beloved.  She  was  an  excellent  hostess,  and 
one  of  the  most  warm,  constant,  and  zealous  of  friends  ; 
on  the  whole,  an  admirable,  lovable,  but  somewhat  over- 
powering woman.  On  the  abdication  of  Napoleon  she 
rushed  back  to  Paris,  and  remained  there  with  few  inter- 
vals till  her  death,  filling  her  drawing-rooms  with  the 
brilliant  society  which  she  enjoyed  so  passionately,  and 
of  which  she  was  herself  the  brightest  ornament.  But 
she  survived  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons  only  a  short 
time  ;  her  constitution  had  been  seriously  undermined  by 
the  fatigues  and  irritations  she  had  undergone,  and  she 
died  in  July,  1817,  on  the  anniversary  of  the  taking  of  the 
Bastille,  at  the  age  of  fifty-one.  Her  last  literary  produc- 
tion was  the  Considerations  sur  la  Revolution  Fran<^aise, 
which  she  began  with  a  view  of  vindicating  her  father's 
memory,  and  intended  as  a  record  of  his  public  life. 

We  have  no  idea  of  attempting  any  criticism,  or  even 
any  general  description,  of  her  various  works ;  such  a 
task,  if  executed  with  care  and  completeness,  would  carry 
us  far  beyond  our  limits ;  if  discharged  in  a  hasty  and 
perfunctory  manner,  would  be  worse  than  unsatisfactory. 
The  peculiar  charm  of  her  writings  arises  from  the  mix- 
ture of  brilliancy  and  depth  which  they  exhibit :  a  bril- 
liancy which  is  even  more  than  French,  a  profundity 
which  is  almost  German.  You  cannot  read  a  page  with- 
2*  o 


34  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

out  meeting  with  some  reflection  wliich  you  wish  to 
transfer  to  your  memory,  or  your  commonj)lace  Look.* 
Tliese  reflections  are  not  always  sound  ;  Lut  tliey  are 
always  ingenious  and  suggestive.  L'AUcmofjnc,  tliough 
incomplete  and  often  superficial,  is  perhaps  as  nearly  a 
true  delineation  of  Germany  as  France  could  take  in,  and 
sliows  wonderful  power  of  thought,  as  Corinne  shows 
wonderful  depth  of  insiglit  and  of  feeling.  These  are  the 
two  works — Cori7i7ie  especially  —  by  which  she  will 
live ;  and  both  were  the  production  of  her  mature  years  ; 
she  was  thirty-eight  wli en  she  wrote  the  latter,  and  forty- 
two  when  she  finished  the  former.  Yet  in  both  there  is 
the  passionate  earnestness,  the  vehement  eloquence, 
the  generous  warmth  of  youth.  From  first  to  last  there 
w^as  nothing  frivolous,  artificial,  or  heartless  in  Madame 
de  Stacl :  she  had  nothing  French  about  her,  except  her 
untiring  vivacity  and  her  sparkling  wit.i*  On  tlie  con- 
trary, a  tone  of  the  profoundest  melancholy  nms  through- 
out all  her  writings.  A  short  time  before  her  death  she 
said  to  Chateaubriand,  "  Je  suis  ce  que  j'ai  toujours  ete 
—  vive  et  triste."  It  is  in  Corinne,  especially,  but  also 
in  De/j'ihine,  that  we   trace   that  indescribable   sadness 

*  For  example,  we  have  just  met  with  the  followinfi;  in  her  chapter 
"  de  I'amoiir  dans  le  mariage  "  (VAIIemogne).  "La gloire  elle-meme  ne 
sanrait  etre  pour  line  femme  qw'un  dcuil  iclatant  du  bonheur."  In 
Corinne  we  find:  "  Ce  sontles  caracteres  passionnes,  bien  plus  que  les 
caracteres  legers,  qui  sont  eapaldes  de  folie."  "  L'aspeot  de  la  nature 
enseigne  la  resignation,  mais  ne  pent  rien  sur  I'incertitude."  "Les 
Eomains  n'avaient  pas  cet  aride  iirincipe  d'utilite,  qui  fertilise  quelques 
coins  de  terre  de  plus,  en  fra]ipant  de  sterilite  le  vaste  domaine  du  senti- 
ment et  de  la  pensee."  "La  vie  religieuse  est  un  combat,  et  non  pas 
un  hymne." 

+  It  was  rather  esprit  than  what  we  generally  mean  by  "wit"  :  she 
was  eminently  spiritiirUc  in  her  conversation,  but  not  a  sayerof  bmism of s. 
Few  of  her  repartees  or  witticisms  have  been  recorded.  One  indeed  we . 
remember,  which  shows  how  formidable  she  might  have  been  in  tliis 
line.  An  unfortunate  man,  finding  himself  seated  at  dinner  between 
her  and  her  fiiend  JIadame  Recamier,  could  think  of  nothing  better  to 
open  the  conversation  with  than  the  fade  compliment,  "  Me  voici 
entre  res])rit  et  la  beaute."  Now  Madame  de  Stael  neither  cho.se  that 
shf  hhould  be  considered  destitute  of  beauty  nor  that  her  friend  should 
be  considered  destitute  of  wit  :  she  was  therefore  far  from  f  attered  by 
the  rapiirochement,  and  turned  round  upon  her  smirking  victim  with, 
"  Oui !  et  sans  posseder  ni  I'une  ni  I'autre  ! " 


.  JIADAME  DE  ST.\EL.  35 

which  seems  inseparable  from  noble  minds,  —  the  crown 
of  thorns  which  genius  must  ever  wear.  It  was  not  with 
her,  as  with  so  many,  the  dissipation  of  youthful  illu- 
sions, the  disenchantment  of  the  ideal  life.  On  the 
contrary,  the  spirit  of  poetry,  the  fancies  and  paintings 
of  enthusiasm,  were  neither  dimmed  nor  tarnished  for 
her,  even  hy  the  approach  of  death ;  she  could  dream  of 
earthly  happiness,  and  tlursted  for  it  still ;  but  she  felt 
that  she  had  never  tasted  it  as  she  Avas  capable  of  con- 
ceiving it ;  she  had  never  loved  as  she  could  love  and 
yearned  to  love  ;  of  all  lier  faculties,  she  touchingly  com- 
plained, "  the  only  one  that  had  been  fully  developed 
was  the  faculty  of  suffering."  Surrounded  by  the  most 
brilliant  men  of  genius,  beloved  by  a  host  of  faithful  and 
devoted  friends,  the  centre  of  a  circle  of  unsurpassed  at- 
tractions, she  was  yet  doomed  to  mourn  "  the  solitude  of 
life."  No  affection  filled  up  her  whole  heart,  called  forth 
all  her  feelings,  or  satisfied  her  passionate  longings  after 
felicity  ;  the  full  union  of  souls,  which  she  could  imagine 
so  vividly  and  paint  in  such  glorious  colors,  was  denied 
to  her,  —  and  all  the  rest  "  availed  her  nothing."  With 
a  mind  teeming  with  rich  and  brilliant  thoughts,  with  a 
heart  melting  with  the  tenderest  and  most  passionate 
emotions,  she  had  no  one  —  no  OXE  —  to  appreciate  the 
first  and  reciprocate  the  last;  she  had  to  live  "the  inner 
life  "  alone ;  to  tread  the  weary  and  dusty  thoroughfares 
of  existence,  with  no  hand  clasped  in  hers,  no  sympathiz- 
ing voice  to  whisper  strength  and  consolation  when  the 
path  grew  rough  and  thorny,  and  the  lamp  burnt  flicker- 
ing and  low.  N'ay  more,  she  had  to  "  keep  a  stern  tryste 
with  death,"  —  to  walk  towards  the  Great  Darkness  with 
none  to  bear  her  company  to  the  margin  of  the  cold 
stream,  to  send  a  cheering  voice  over  the  black  waters, 
and  to  give  her  rendezvous  upon  the  farther  shore.  What 
wonder  then  that  she  sometimes  faltered  and  grew  faint 
under  the  solitary  burden,  and  "  sickened  at  the  unshared 
light ! "  The  consolation  offered  by  a  poet  of  our  own 
day  to  the  sorrowing  children  of  genius  did  not  always 
suffice  for  her ;  rarely  at  all  times  can  it  suffice  for  any. 


3G  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

"  Because  the  few  with  signal  virtue  crowned, 

The  heights  and  jiinnacles  of  human  mind, 
Sadder  and  wearier  tlian  the  rest  are  found, 

Wish  not  thy  soul  less  wise  or  less  refined. 
True  tiiat  the  small  delights  which  every  day 

Cheer  and  distract  the  jiilgrim,  are  not  theirs  ; 
True,  that,  though  free  from  Passion's  lawless  sway, 

A  loftier  being  brings  severer  cares. 
Yet  have  they  special  pleasures,  even  mirth, 

By  those  undreamed  of  who  have  only  trod 
Life's  valley  smooth  ;  and  if  the  rolling  earth 

To  their  nice  ear  have  many  a  painful  tone. 

They  know  man  doth  not  live  by  joy  alone, 
But  by  the  presence  of  the  power  of  God."  * 

Two  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of  France  were  as- 
sociated with  Madame  de  Staiil  Loth  socially  and  histor- 
ically. Both  lived  in  her  intimacy  for  a  longer  or  shorter 
period,  and  both  were  closely  connected  with  the  great 
events  with  which  she,  either  as  an  actor  or  a  sufi'erer, 
■was  mixed  up.  Talleyrand  was  her  intimate  of  the 
eighteenth  and  Benjamin  Constant  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  They  were  two  of  the  most  distinctive  and 
strongly  marked  characters  of  their  day,  and  as  such 
would  well  deserve  a  fuller  delineation  and  analysis  than 
we  can  afford  them.  Each  was  the  type  of  a  class  and 
of  a  genus,  and  we  question  whether  strict  justice  has 
yet  been  done  to  either.  Talleyrand  has  been  especially 
maltreated  by  common  fame.  By  most  who  know  his 
name,  he  is  regarded  as  a  second  Machiavelli,  —  as  little 
understood  and  as  ruthlessly  slandered  as  the  Jfirst,  —  an 
intriguing  and  unprincipled  diplomatist,  —  a  heartless 
persiflcur,  —  the  very  incarnation  of  political  profligacy 
and  shameless  tergiversation.  His  portraits  have  almost 
all  been  drawn  by  his  foes,  —  by  those  whom  he  had 
baffled,  or  by  those  whom  he  had  deserted ;  by  those 
wliom  his  pungent  sarcasms  had  wounded,  or  whom  his 
superior  address  had  mortified ;  and  his  own  memoirs, 
from  his  own  hand,  are  to  remain  a  sealed  book  till,  ly 
tlie  death  of  every  one  whom  they  could  compromise 
(or,  say  his  enemies,  who  could  contradict  them),  they 
have  become  interesting  to  the  historian  alone.     Talley- 

*  E.  M.  Milnes,  Poems  of  ifany  Years. 


MADAME   DE  STAEL.  37 

rand  was  something  very  different  from  the  popular  con- 
ception of  him.*  He  was  a  profound  thinker  ;  he  had 
strong  political  opinions,  if  he  liad  no  moral  principles ; 
he  was  at  least  as  bold,  daring,  and  decided  in  action  as 
he  was  sagacious  in  council ;  his  political  and  social 
tact  —  wliich  is  wisdom  so  quick  and  piercing  as  to  seem 
unreasoning — had  the  promptitude  and  certainty  of  an 
instinct ;  and  living  in  constant  intercourse,  hostile  or 
friendly,  witli  the  ablest  men  of  that  stirring  epoch,  he 
acquired  an  undisputed  ascendency  over  them  all,  by 
the  simple  influence  of  a  keener  intellect  and  a  subtler 
tongue. 

Far  from  being  devoid  of  political  predilections  and  con- 
victions, liis  whole  career,  from  the  time  he  entered  the 
States-General,  showed  that  botli  were  very  strong  in  him. 
He  had  thought  deeply  and  he  felt  keenly.  That  much 
of  personal  feeling  entered  into  the  motives  which  deter- 
mined him  to  the  course  he  took,  and  that  much  of  ego- 
tism and  scorn  of  his  fellow-men  mingled  with  and  alloyed 
his  lofty  and  persevering  ambition,  cannot  be  denied,  and 
is  not  to  be  wondered  at.  We  must  read  his  character 
and  career  by  the  light  which  his  early  liistory  throws  over 
it,  and  we  shall  find  there  enougli  amply  to  explain  both 
his  steady  preference  for  constitutional  liberty  after  the 
English  model,  and  the  ardor  and  determination  with 
which  he  threw  himself  into  the  most  active  ranks  of  the 
revolutionists.  He  had  suffered  too  much  under  the  old 
regime  not  to  desire  to  sweep  away  a  system  wliich  per- 
mitted such  injustices  as  he  had  endured.  He  had  seen 
too  thoroughly  the  hollowness  and  rottenness  of  every- 
thing around  him, — the  imbecile  feebleness  of  the  Court, 
the  greediness  and  impiety  of  the  Church,  the  selfish  and 
heartless  profligacy  of  the  higher  ranks, — to  be  of  opin- 
ion that  there  was  much  worth  preserving  in  the  existing 
state  of  things.  He  had  too  fine  a  fancy  and  too  powerful 
a  mind  not  to  participate  in  some  measure  in  the  hopes 

*  To  guard  myself  against  the  possihle  imputation  of  having  borrowed 
from  the  recent  work  of  Sir  Henry  Bulwer,  I  may  mention  that  this 
sketch  of  Talleyrand  was  originally  printed  fifteen  years  ago. 


S8  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

then  entertained  l)y  all  the  more  "erected  spirits"  of  the 
nation,  of  an  era  of  ploi'ious  social  regeneration.  He  Mas 
a  bishop  against  liis  M-ill ;  he  had  lived  in  the  very  centre 
of  all  the  elegant  immoralities  of  I'aiis;  and  lie  had 
studied  and  conversed  with  Yoltaiie.  He  was  the  eldest 
son  of  one  of  the  noblest  families  of  Fiance,  but  having 
been  lamed  by  an  accident  arising  from  the  combined 
neglect  of  parents  and  menials,  he  was  compelled,  by  one 
of  those  acts  of  family  tyranny  then  by  no  means  urcrm- 
mon,  to  forego  his  birthright,  and  accej^t  the  destiny  of 
yonnger  sons  in  that  age  and  of  that  rank,- — namelj',  to 
go  into  the  Church.  Without  being  allowed  to  return  to 
the  paternal  loof,  he  was  transferred  from  his  nurse's 
cottage  to  the  ecclesiastical  seminary  of  St.  Sulpice,  and 
thence  to  the  College  of  the  Sorbonire.  He  was  made  a 
priest  without  the  slightest  attention  either  to  his  wislies 
or  his  character.  Boiling  over  with  youthful  passions, 
with  healthy  energy,  with  splendid  talents,  with  mun- 
dane tastes,  he  was  condemned  by  an  act  of  flagrant  in- 
justice to  a  life  of  celibacy,  of  inaction,  and  of  religious 
duties  which,  in  the  case  of  one  so  devoid  of  devotional 
sentiment  as  he  was,  could  only  be  the  most  loathsome 
and  wearisome  hypocrisy.  "What  Avonder  that  a  mighty 
wrong  like  this  should  have  sunk  into  his  mind,  and 
greatly  modified  his  views  and  feelings,  even  if  it  did  not 
sour  his  temper !  At  college  he  brooded  over  his  morti- 
fication, looked  his  destiny  in  the  face,  and  deliberately 
took  his  course.  "With  rare  powers  like  his,  he  felt  that 
obscurity  Avas  impossible,  but  that  he  must  rise  by  a  clif- 
ferent  ladder  from  the  one  he  M'ould  himself  have  chosen. 
He  resolved  to  triumph  over  those  who  had  degraded  him, 
but  to  whom  he  knew  himself  in  eveiy  vray  superior ; 
and  he  prepared  himself  to  do  so  by  sedulous  and  earnest 
study.  He  spoke  little,  he  reflected  much.  Naturally 
botli  intelligent  and  ardent,  he  taught  himself  to  become 
M-ell-informed, reserved, and  self-restrained;  and  from  the 
training  which  the  Catholic  Church  has  always  giA  en  to 
its  servants,  he  learned  that  untiring  and  watchful  pa- 
tience, that  deep  insight  into  men,  that  quick  appreciation 


MADAME  DE  STAEL.  39 


of  circumstances,  those  gentle  and  insinuatino-  manners, 
that  habitual  quietude,  that  prompt  and  well-timed  activ- 
ity, which  were  his  most  distinguishing  qualities  througli 
life,  and  liis  chief  instruments  of  success.  When  he  liad 
completed  his  theological  studies  he  entered  the  world, — 
to  enjoy  it  and  subdue  it.  He  was  known  as  the  Abbe 
de  Perigord.  "  Contrarie  dans  les  gouts  "  (says  Mignet), "  il 
y  entra  en  mecontent,  pret  ay  agir  en  revolutionnaire.  11 
y  obtint,  des  I'abord,  la  reputation  d'un  homme  avec  lequel 
il  fallait  compter,  et  qui,  ayant  un  beau  nom,  un  grand 
calme,  infiniment  d'esprit,  quelque  chose  de  gracieux  qui 
captivait,  de  raalicieux  qui  effrayait,*  beaucoup  d'ardeur 
contenue  par  une  prudence  sufifisante  et  conduite  par  une 
extreme  adresse,  devait  necessairement  reussir." 

He  soon  became  agent-general  for  the  clergy,  —  an 
office  of  great  influence  and  importance,  —  and  subse- 
quently bishop  of  Autun,  and  when  the  States-General 
met,  he  was  elected  as  deputy  from  his  diocese.  He  was 
now  thirty-five  years  of  age.  He  at  once  embraced  the 
popular  side',  and  became  prominent  and  powerful.  His 
voice  was  raised  in  favor  both  of  liberty  of  thought  and 
of  equality  of  civil  rights.  He  supported  the  union  of 
the  three  orders,  —  the  first  great  step  of  the  revolution ; 
he  persuaded  the  Assembly  to  decide  against  those  man- 
dats  imperatifs,  which  would  have  made  its  members  the 
mere  slaves  and  mouthpieces  of  their  constituents  ;  he 
was  one  of  eight  who  were  selected  to  prepare  the  New 
Constitution  which  was  to  regenerate  the  country  ;  he 
was  appointed  to  report  upon  a  system  of  National  Edu- 
cation, and  the  memoir  which  he  presented  to  the  Assem- 

*  Talleyrand,  at  his  first  entrance  into  societ}',  amied  himself  with 
that  fine  and  subtle  wit  which  has  made  him  so  renowned,  and  by  one  or 
two  crushing  repartees  made  himself  both  respected  and  feared.  But  in 
general  at  this  period  his  sayings  were  distinguished  rather  for  finesse 
than  severity.     He  was  in  the  salon  of  the  Due  de  Choiseul  when  the 

Duchess  De  N was  announced.     She  was  a  lady  whose  adventures 

■were  then  the  talk  of  all  Paris,  and  an  exclamation  of  oh  !  oh  !  escaped 
the  Abbe,  so  loud  that  tlie  Duchess  who  entered  at  that  moment  heard 
it.  As  soon  as  the  company  were  seated  round  the  talile,  the  lady  said, 
"  Je  voudrais  bien  savoir,  j\I.  I'Abbe,  pourcpioi  vous  avez  (lit  oh  !  oh  ! 
lorsque  je  suis  entree  ?  "  "  Point,  Madame  "  (replied  the  Abbe),  "  vous 
avez  mal  eutendu.     J'ai  dit  ah  !  ah  !  " 


40  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

l)ly  not  only  obtained  an  instant  and  vast  celebrity,  but 
formed  the  foundation  of  the  plan  then  adopted,  and 
which  exists  with  little  chan_<4e  to  the  ])resent  day.  Vnt- 
sides  these  labors  he  paid  special  attention  to  the  finances, 
.  which  were  then  in  a  most  deplorable  condition ;  he  su])- 
ported  the  proposals  of  Necker;  and  it  was  on  his  motion 
that  the  Assembly  resolved  on  the  seizure  and  sale  of  all 
ecclesiastical  property  as  l)elon^inf(  to  the  state,  and  on 
the  reduction  of  the  clert^y  from  the  position  of  indt;- 
pendent  proprietors  to  that  of  salaried  cmp/oi/&.  In 
doinj^  this  he  proposed  to  improve  the  condition  of  the 
inferior  clergy,  while  he  hoped  at  the  same  time  to  avert 
a  national  bankruptcy.  At  the  same  time  he  supported 
the  equalization  of  imposts,  and  the  entire  sui)pressi(jn 
of  all  feudal  and  seignorial  riglits.  Finally,  he  was  a])- 
pointed  by  his  colleagues  to  draw  up  an  address  to  tlie 
nation  explaining  and  justifying  the  proceedings  of  the 
Assembly,  and  so  admirably  did  he  discharge  tliis  func- 
tion, that  he  was  shortly  afterwards  elected  President  by 
a  largo  majority. 

What  might  have  lieen  his  course  during  the  subse- 
quent and  more  stormy  phases  of  the  devolution  we 
cannot  pretend  to  conjecture.  Happily  for  liim  he  was 
saved  from  having  to  take  a  part  in  scenes  where  almost 
any  part  would  have  been  questionable,  objectionable, 
and  unsafe.  He  had  resigned,  or  rather  abjured,  his 
clerical  functions,  and  early  in  1792  Avas  sent  to  England 
on  a  diplomatic  mission,  the  object  of  which  was  to  sub- 
stitute a  national  for  a  court  alliance.  Thirty-eight  years 
afterwards,  at  the  age  of  seventy-six,  he  was  again  ac- 
credited to  the  same  country  on  a  similar  errand.  His 
first  and  last  diplomatic  acts  at  least  were  consistent  and 
in  unison.  He  remained  in  England  (with  the  exception 
of  a  short  visit  to  Paris)  till  the  following  year,  when 
Pobespierre  proscriljcd  him,  and  shortly  afterA\'ards  ]\Ir. 
Pitt  ordered  him  to  quit  the  country  in  twenty-four 
hours.  His  residence  here,  chiefly  in  the  society  of 
Madame  de  Stael,  increased  his  admiration  for  our  insti- 
tutions, but  he  was  ill-received  in  the  higher  circles,  — 


]\L\DAME   DE  STAEL.  41 

being  regarded  partly  as  an  apostate  priest,  partly  as  a 
reputed  profligate,  partly  as  an  intriguing  revolutionist. 
But  those  who  knew  him  at  this  period  describe  him  as 
one  of  the  most  fascinating  of  companions,  quiet,  gentle, 
caressing,  and  attentive,  —  speaking  little,  but  when  he 
did  speak,  compressing  volumes  into  a  single  phrase. 
Champfort  relates  that  when  Ehulhiere  observed,  "  Je  ne 
sais  pourquoi  j'ai  la  reputation  d'etre  mediant :  je  n'ai 
fait  qu'une  mechancete  dans  ma  vie,"  Talleyrand,  who 
had  taken  no  part  in  the  conversation,  and  sat  at  a  distant 
corner  of  the  room,  asked,  with  delil>erate  significance, 
"Et  quand  finira-t-elle  ?"  On  another  occasion,  when 
relating  some  atrocity  of  one  of  his  colleagues,  his  au- 
ditor remarked,  "  Mais  I'homme  qui  a  pu  commettre  une 
pareille  action  est  capable  d'assassiner."  "  D'assassiner, 
non "  .  .  .  .  (said  Talleyrand,  reflectively)  .  .  .  .  "  d'em- 
poisonner,  oui."  * 

Proscribed  in  France,  and  banished  from  England,  M. 
de  Talleyrand  went  to  America,  and,  as  a  Memoir  which 
he  afterwards  read  before  the  National  Institute  testifies, 
did  not  waste  his  time  while  there.  But  when  a  better 
day  began  to  dawn  after  the  overthrow  of  the  Reign  of 
Terror,  Chenier,  at  the  instigation  of  INIadame  de  Stael, 
procured  a  decree  of  the  Convention,  erasing  his  name 
from  the  list  of  emigrants  and  permitting  his  return. 
He  re-entered  France,  and  after  a  short  interval  was 
made  IMinister  of  Foreign  Affairs  under  the  Directory ; 
but  as  they  became  more  and  more  imbecile,  and  a  change 
more  and  more  inevitable  and  desirable,  he  was,  or  con- 
triv'ed  to  be,  dismissed  in  the  early  part  of  1799;  and 
thus  found  himself  at  liberty  to  assist  Buonaparte  in  his 
revolution  of  the  18th  Brumaire,  which  it  is  difficult  not 
to  regard  as,  under  the  circumstances,  the  greatest  ser- 
vice he  ever  rendered  to  his  country.  ]\Iadame  de  Staiil 
never  forgave  his  adhesion  to  the  popular  young  hero.-f 

*  A  friend  liaving  spoken  of  Sifeyes  as  "im  homme  profond,"  — 
"  Profond  ....  ce  n'est  pas  le  mot  "  (said  Talleyrand)  ;  "c'est  creux, 
tres  creux,  que  vous  voulez  dire." 

+  When  "Delphine"  appeared,  Madame  de  Stael  was  currently  re- 
ported to  have  drawn  both  herself  and  M.  de  Talleyrand  therein,  —  her- 


42  LITERARY   AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

But  Talleyrand  saw  that  France  was  perishing  for  want 
of  a  government ;  that  her  political  notabilities  were 
neither  honest  enough,  wise  enough,  nor  able  enough  to 
rescue  and  regenerate  her ;  disorder  in  the  finances,  dis- 
organization in  the  interior,  and  disaster  abroad,  all  clam- 
ored loudly  for  a  change ;  and  in  the  vigorous  intellect, 
gigantic  sagacity,  and  iron  will  of  the  young  conqueror 
of  Italy,  Talleyrand,  like  most  Frenchmen,  recognized 
the  Man  for  the  crisis,  —  I'homme  n^cessaire,  as  Necker 
termed  him.  The  mode  in  which  the  Directory  and  its 
councils  were  overthrown  was  audacious  and  violent 
enough ;  but  the  result  went  far  to  jiistify  the  actors. 
Order  at  home  and  victory  abroad  followed  in  quick  suc- 
cession ;  tJie  finances  were  restored ;  confidence  Avas  re- 
awakened ;  the  funds  rose ;  *  an  admirable  system  of 
administration  was  established  ;  France  was  at  once  recon- 
stituted, after  ten  years  of  misery,  crime,  and  chaos ;  and 
the  period  from  1800  to  1807,  during  which  Talleyrand 
was  the  principal  minister,  was  beyond  example  the  most 
glorious  in  her  annals.  It  is  true  that  mucli  of  the  work 
of  Talleyrand's  earlier  years  Avas  upset :  much  however 
remained  indestructible.  It  is  true  that  under  Xapoleon 
France  enjoyed  only  the  shadow  of  those.  Parliamentary 
institutions  to  which  Talleyrand  was  sincerely  attached, 
and  which  formed  part  of  the  original  constitution  urged 
npon  and  adopted  by  the  First  Consul ;  but  probably  by 
this  time  the  experienced  Minister  had  begun  to  feel  that 
at  that  crisis  a  man  was  more  important  tlian  an  institu- 
tion, —  which  it  must  be  allowed  had  not  been  attended 

self  as  Delphine,  him  as  JIadame  de  Venion.  Talleyrand  met  her 
shortly  afterwards,  and  paid  her  the  usual  compliments  on  the  perform- 
ance, adding,  in  his  gentlest  and  sweetest  voice,  the  keen  sarca.'ni,  "  On 
m'assureque  nous  y sommes  tons  les  deux,  vonsetmoi,  dejuif:esenfcmincs." 
*  An  enemy  of  Talleyrand  having  hinted  to  Buonaparte  that  the  e.\- 
abbe  had  become  very  rich,  and  probably  by  no  very  creditable  means, 
the  First  Consul  took  him  to  task  in  his  usual  rude  and  briisqi<c  man- 
ner. "On  m'assure  (pie  vous  etes  ties  riche,  citoyen  ;  comment  oela 
se  peut-il  ?  "  "  Rien  de  plus  simjile.  "  (replied  the  reuly-witted  and  im- 
perturbable courtier);  "j'ui  acliete  les  rentes  la  rci'fe  du  dix-huit  Rru- 
maire,  ct  je  les  ai  revendus  la  Icndemain."  Could  there  be  a.  more  effec- 
tive silencer,  or  a  more  delicate  and  subtle  compliment  ?  Buonaparte 
had  not  another  word  to  saj'. 


MADAME  DE  STAEL.  43 

with  any  brilliant  success.  It  is  true  that  during  his 
period  of  office  Talleyrand  had  to  sanction  and  transact 
many  acts  of  injustice  and  oppression  to  foreign  nations, 
and  to  witness  much  tyranny  at  home  ;  but  he  probably 
satisfied  himself  with  reflecting  that  he  was  serving  his 
chief  and  aggrandizing  his  country.  He  quitted  office 
after  the  Peace  of  Tilsit,  when  France  was  at  her  culmi- 
nating point.  He  set  his  face  steadily  against  the  Em- 
peror's subsequent  aggressions.  He  condemned  the 
invasion  of  Spain  so  severely,  that  I^apoleon,  in  deep 
indignation,  deprived  him  of  his  dignity  at  court  as 
Grand  Chamberlain.  His  deep  and  far-seeing  sagacity 
probably  perceived  that  the  ambition  of  the  Emperor 
had  blinded  and  impaired  his  genius,  and  that  he  liad 
embarked  in  a  course  which  must  lead  to  ultimate  reac- 
tion and  ruin.  In  all  likelihood  this  ruin  was  greatly 
hastened  by  his  retirement  from  the  direction  of  affairs, 
for  his  coolness,  patience,  and  wisdom  had  often  tempered 
the  hastiness  and  impetuosity  of  Kapoleon.  "  Le  grand 
esprit  de  Napoleon  et  le  bon  sens  de  J\I.  de  Talleyrand  " 
(saj's  Mignet) "  semblaient  faits  I'un  pour  I'autre.  Ce  qu'il 
y  avait  d'iuventif,  de  fecond,  de  hardi,  d'impetueux,  dans  le 
premier,  avait  besoin  de  ce  qu'il  y  avait  de  net,  de  froid, 
d'avise,  de  sur,  dans  le  second.  L'un  avait  le  g-mie  de 
Taction,  I'autre  celui  dii  conseil.  L'un  projetait  tout  ce 
qu'il  y  avait  de  grand,  I'autre  evitait  tout  ce  qu'il  y  avait 
de  dangereux ;  et  le  fougue  creatrice  de  l'un  pouvait  etre 
heureusement  temperee  par  la  lenteur  circonspecte  de 
I'autre.  M.  de  Talleyrand  savait  faire  perdre  du  temps  a 
I'empereur  lorsque  sa  colere  ou  sa  passion  I'auraient 
pousse  a  des  mesures  precipit(^es,  et  lui  donnait  le  moyen 
de  se  montrer  plus  habile  en  devenant  plus  calme.  Aussi, 
disait-il,  avec  une  exageration  spirituello  dans  la  forme, 
mais  non  sans  verite  :  '  L'Empereur  a  ete  compromis  le 
jour  ou  il  a  pu  faire  un  quart  d'heure  plus  tot  ce  que 
j'obtenais  qu'il   fit  un  quart  d'heure  plus  tard.'  *     La 

*  It  is  interesting  to  see  how  closely  this  account  tallies  with  that 
given  by  M.  Thiers,  in  his  Consulatet  1' Empire  :  "  Toutelois,  il  avait  un 
merite  moral,    c'etait   d' aimer  la  paix  sous  un  maitre  qui  aimait  la 


44  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

perte  d'lm  pareil  conseiller  dut  etre  un  malheur  pour  lui, 
en  attendant  qu'elle  devint  un  danger."  * 

Napoleon  never  forgave  Talleyrand  his  condemnation 
of  the  Spanish  invasion.  He  hated  him,  as  he  hated  all 
who  opposed  liis  will  or  criticised  his  measures ;  but  at 
the  same  time  he  knew  him  too  well  not  to  fear  him.  He 
suspected  his  designs  and  dreaded  his  intrigues  ;  but  lie 
dared  not  take  any  decided  steps  against  him,  and  Talley- 
rand was  far  too  wary  to  give  him  any  excuse.  Under 
the  irritating  influence  of  these  feelings  the  Emperor  lost 
no  opportunity  of  menacing  and  insulting  the  retired 
minister,  often  in  the  vulgarest  and  rudest  manner.  Some 
of  these  sallies  Talleyrand  endured  with  the  imperturba- 
ble and  impassive  manner  which  distinguished  him, 
some  he  retorted  with  spirit  and  success.-f-  But  those 
who  read  the  account  of  the  scenes  which  passed  between 
these  amis   cV autrefois  will  find  little  reason  either  for 

giierre  ;  et  do  le  laisser  voir.  Done  d'un  gout  exquis,  d'nn  tact  sur, 
meme  d'une  pnrcssc  utile,  il  pouvait  lemlre  de  veritables  services,  seiile- 
mcnt  en  opposant  h,  I'abondance  de  parole,  de  plume,  et  d'action  du 
Premier  Consul,  sa  sobriete,  sa  parfaite  mesure,  son  penchant  mSme  d  ne 
ricn  fitirc." 

*  No  government  M-liich  disgraced  Tallc)'rand  or  was  deserted  by 
him  ever  prospered  long  after  his  retirement.  "  Sire  "  (said  he  once  hy 
"WAX  of  explanation  of  the  fact  to  Louis  XYIII.),  "  il  y  a  quelque  chose 
inexplicable  en  moi  qui  porte  malheur  aux  gouvernemens  qui  me 
negligent." 

f  When  the  Spanish  princes  were  brought  to  France  they  ivere  con- 
signed to  the  charge  of  M.  de  Tallej^rand,  ■who  was  obliged  to  be  their 
host  at  his  country-house.  It  was  rumored  that  one  of  them  emploj-ed 
his  forced  leisure  in  seducing  Madame  de  T.  It  is  said,  we  know  not 
with  what  truth,  that  Napoleon  had  the  brutality  to  venture  on  some 
insulting  allusion  to  this  rumor,  in  conversation  Mith  Talleyrand  him- 
self. Tiie  Grand  Chaniberle.in  replied  with  his  usual  immovable  calm- 
ness, "  11  est  vrai,  Sire,  qu'il  ei'it  ete  mieux  ct  pour  Vlionneur  ch  vofre 
Majcsti  ct  pour  le  viicii  qu'il  ne  fut  jamais  question  de  ces  Princes 
d'Espagne."  Whether  this  be  true  or  not,  the  following  unquestionably 
is  :  When  Talleyrand  appeared  at  the  Emperor's  Icvcc  after  the  battle  of 
Leipsic.  the  latter  accosted  him  with  his  usual  brusque ric,  accused  him 
of  caballing  against  him,  and  overwhelmed  him  with  the  most  vihement 
reproaches,  ending  by  saying,  "  Mais,  prenez  garde,  si  j'ctais  malade 
dangereusement,  je  vous  avertis,  vous  seriez  mort  avant  moi."  "  Sire  " 
(answered  the  courtier,  Mith  the  most  polite  smile),  "je  n'avais  pas  besoin 
d'un  jiareil  avertissement  pour  adresser  an  ciel  des  vceux  biens  ardens 
pour  la  conserA'ation  des  jours  de  votre  Majeste." 


MADAME  DE  STAEL.  45 

wonder  oi*  for  blame,  if  the  ex-minister's  patriotic  desire 
for  the  termination  of  Napoleon's  reign  was  heightened 
by  something  of  personal  animosity.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
Talleyrand  remained  in  a  state  of  watchful  inaction  till 
the  Allies  approached  Paris  in  1814,  when  it  became  evi- 
dent that  Napoleon's  career  was  ended,  and  that  all  a 
good  citizen  could  do  was  to  make  the  best  terms  he 
could  for  his  country,  both  with  the  enemies  who  had 
conquered  her,  and  with  the  sovereign  who  was  to  mount 
upon  her  throne.  This  task  Talleyrand  undertook  with 
unusual  vivacity  and  energy.  After  tlie  capitulation  he 
saved  France  from  much  misery,  and  possibly  from  a 
civil  war,  by  his  resolute  opposition  to  any  mezzo-terminc, 
such  as  a  regency  and  the  proclamation  of  Napoleon's 
son,  or  of  Bernadotte,  as  was  once  proposed.  "Non"  (said 
he  to  Alexander,  who  had  a  lingering  admiration  for  Na- 
poleon, which  made  him  unwilling  utterly  to  destroy 
him), —  "non.  Sire,  il  n'y  a  que  deux  choses  possibles  — 
Buonaparte  ou  Louis  XVIII.  Buonaparte  est  un  prin- 
cipe  :  Louis  XVIII.  est  un  principe  —  tout  ce  qui  n'est 
ni  I'un  et  I'autre  n'est  qu'une  intrigue."  He  therefore  sup- 
ported with  all  his  influence  the  restoration  of  the  Bour- 
bons ;  but,  cognizant  of  their  incurable  character,  and 
faithful  to  his  old  political  ideas,  he  insisted  upon  the 
promulgation  of  "  the  Charter,"  which  established  a  con- 
stitutional monarchy  and  two  Chambers.  The  basis  of 
the  institutions  which  governed  France  from  1814  to 
1830  she  owed  to  Talleyrand. 

His  next  task  was  a  far  more  difficult  one.  It  was  to 
act  as  minister  for  the  foreign  affairs  of  a  conquered 
country,  and  in  a  camp  of  conquerors  met  to  decide 
upon  her  limits  and  her  fate.  His  genius  was  never  so 
manifest  as  at  the  Congress  of  Vienna.  He  had  to  deal 
witli  sovereigns  burning  to  avenge  spoliations  and  hu- 
miliations which  no  doubt  might  justify  the  severest  re- 
taliation, and  furious  at  the  sufferings  and  maltreatments 
they  had  undergone ;  he  had  to  persuade  them  to  turn 
their  vengeance  against  Napoleon,  not  against  France. 
Tliey  had  met  to  despoil  and  deal  with  her  at  their  free 


46  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

pleasure ;  he  had  to  induce  them  to  admit  her  as  one  of 
the  hinh  contracting  powers.  He  succeeded,  chiefly 
through  his  influence  witli  Alexander,  in  obtaining  a  seat 
at  their  councils,  and  once  there,  his  supreme  ability  soon 
gave  him  an  irresistible  ascendant:  he  succeeded  in  sow- 
ing dissension  between  the  Allies,  and  at  last  in  persuad- 
ing them  that  it  would  be  a  bad  and  shalloAv  policy  to 
weaken  France  too  much.  But  in  the  mean  time  Louis 
XVIII.,  freed  from  the  counsels  of  his  wise  minister,* 
whose  superiority  annoyed  and  eclipsed  him,  had  com- 
mitted folly  after  folly,  had  disgusted  the  army,  and 
alienated  the  returning  affections  of  the  people.  Xapo- 
leon  had  landed  from  Elba,  and  was  again  upon  the 
throne,  while  Louis  was  a  fugitive  at  Ghent.  The  Allies 
had  to  commence  a  new  war,  and  the  crowning  victory  of 
Waterloo,  and  the  surrender  of  Napoleon,  placed  France 
more  completely  at  their  mercy  than  before.  Their  in- 
dignation was,  of  coiu'se,  more  vehement  than  ever,  and 
the  task  of  Talleyrand  in  appeasing  them  incomparably 
more  difficult;  and  finding  his  efforts  of  no  avail,  either 
to  control  the  irritated  monarch  or  pacify  his  furious  al- 
lies, he  quitted  office  to  avoid  signing  the  humiliating 
treaty  of  1815.  Before  doing  so,  however,  he  had  per- 
suaded Louis  XVIII.  to  issue  the  Proclamation  of  Cam- 
brai,  promising  a  more  faithful  adherence  to,  and  a  more 
liberal  interpretation  of,  the  Charter,  and  greater  defer- 
ence to  those  notions  of  liberty  which  the  revolution  of 
1789  had  indelibly  rooted  in  the  minds  of  the  people.  He 
had  the  utmost  difficulty  in  persuading  the  incurable  old 
Bourbon  that  the  permanence  of  his  throne  depended  on 

*  "  Deja  de  Vienne  il  avaitecrit  a  Louis  XVIH.  toute.s  le.s  fautes  qu'on 
ror>rochait  k  son  pouverneineiit  en  1814  :  raliandon  de  la  cocarde  tri- 
cnlorn  ;  les  restrictions  apportees  aux  paranties  etablies  par  la  Chavte  ; 
reloienement  dans  lequel  le  parti  constitutionnel  avait  ete  tenii  des 
pmplois  publics,  presqu'  uniquenicnt  accordes  a  d'anciens  royalistes  ; 
rijrnorance  et  la  maladresse  avec  laquell^  on  avait  donne  la  France  a 
n'gir  ;\  dos  hommos  nourris  dans  rt'nii,2;ration,  etranrjers  aux  idees  et  aux 
.sentimens  de  la  nation  nouvelle.  qui  avaiont  alarme  ses  interets  et  sou- 
leve  ses  haines  ;  et  I'absence  d'un  niinist^re  homogene,  fonnant  un  con- 
seil  responsable.  diriee  par  un  president,  et  capable  de  gouverner." 
—  MiGNET,  Notice  Misiorique. 


MADAME  DE  STAEL,  47 

his  management  of  the  democratic  spirit,  and  that  the 
adoption  of  the  policy  of  the  Legitimists  would  be  fatal  to 
him.  The  king  became  anxious  to  get  rid  of  his  import- 
unate councillor,  and  by  way  of  hinting  to  him  the 
propriety  of  retiring,  he  asked  him  one  day,  how  far  it 
was  to  Valenc^ay,  the  country-seat  of  M.  de  Talleyrand. 
"Je  ne  sais  pas  au  juste.  Sire"  (replied  the  minister), 
"  mais  il  doit  avoir  environ  le  double  du  distance  d'ici  a 
Gand " ;  intimating  that  before  he,  Talleyrand,  could 
reach  Valenqay,  Louis,  deprived  of  the  safeguard  of  his 
counsel,  would  be  again  an  exile. 

From  the  time  of  his  retirement  he  took  his  place  in 
the  ranks  of  the  Liberal  opposition  in  the  Chamber  of 
Peers,  and  steadily  set  his  face  against  the  .  oppression 
and  reactionary  follies  of  the  Eestoration.  In  1830 
what  he  had  long  foreseen  took  place  :  a  new  revolution, 
patiently  toiled  for  during  fifteen  years  of  selfishness  and 
blunders,  again  drove  the  Bourbons  into  exile,  and  sum- 
moned the  veteran  diplomatist  into  public  life  once  more. 
He  gave  Louis  Philippe  the  benefit  of  his  multifarious 
experience,  and  accepted  the  embassy  to  England,  Mith 
the  view  of  cementing  that  alliance  between  the  two 
countries  which  had  been  the  earliest  object  of  his  official 
life.  That  done,  he  once  more  retired  into  privacy ;  and 
died  at  the  age  of  eighty-four,  with  faculties  and  cheer- 
fulness alike  unimpaired,  —  though  no  man  had  lived 
through  sceiies  more  calculated  to  crush  the  one  and  ex- 
haust the  other. 

The  great  crime  against  political  morality  with  which 
he  is  reproached  —  his  inconstancy  —  seemed  at  all  times 
to  lie  very  lightly  on  his  conscience.  He  spoke  of  his 
changes  without  tlie  smallest  embarrassment  or  shame, 
alleging  that  what  he  served  was  not  this  or  that  gov- 
ernment, but  his  country,  under  the  political  form  which 
it  had  put  on  for  the  time  being ;  that  he  was  faithful  to 
each  administration  so  long  as  it  suited  France,  and 
wisely  and  honestly  consulted  her  interests ;  and  that  he 
never  deserted  any  till  it  liad  become  tlie  duty  of  every 
good  citizen  to  do  so.     He  has  also  been  severely  v& 


48  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

proaclied  with  avarice  and  corruption,  and  probably  the 
charge  was  not  without  foundation ;  but  there  is  no  rea- 
son to  believe  that  he  ever  betrayed  or  sold  his  country 
or  his  feniployers  for  his  own  private  interests ;  and  at  a 
period  when  it  was  customary  and  almost  an  avowed 
transaction  for  niirdsters  to  receive  vast  presents,  called 
puts-de-vm,  from  powers  or  parties  whom  they  had  been 
able  to  gratify  and  serve,  we  can  scarcely  judge  a  man 
according  to  the  purer  delicacy  and  severer  standard  of 
to-day.  This  much  is  certain,  —  that,  surrounded  with 
enemies  and  beset  with  dangers  at  every  period  of  his 
public  life,  he  was  never  known  to  counsel  a  violence  or 
to  be  guilty  of  a  vengeance  ;  he  punislied  his  adversaries 
by  bans  inots  alone  ;  he  M'as  in  all  tilings  a  moderator  and 
a  friend  of  peace ;  and  in  private  life  he  was  gentle, 
amiable,  and  singularly  beloved  by  all  who  were  admitted 
to  his  intimacy.  The  character  of  his  intellect  was  in 
many  respects  Italian  rather  than  French ;  and  to  find 
his  parallel  we  must  go  back  to  the  statesmen  who  ruled 
Florence  and  Milan  during  the  Middle  Ages.  His  sub- 
tlety and^?icssc  belonged  to  both  countries  :  his  patience, 
his  quietness,  his  imperturbable  SAveetness  of  temper, 
were  exclusively  Italian ;  while  there  was  something 
almost  feminine  in  the  seductive  attractiveness  of  his 
manner.  On  tlie  whole,  if  M'e  consider  the  moral  atmos- 
phere in  which  he  Mas  born  and  bred,  the  false  position 
in  wliieh  early  injustice  had  placed  him,  the  fearful  times 
in  which  he  lived  and  acted,  —  times  eminently  fatal  to 
all  high  enthusiasm,  to  all  fixed  opinions,  to  all  inflexible 
constancy,  —  times  which  tried  the  courage  of  the  bravest, 
the  convictions  of  the  most  obstinate,  the  faith  of  the 
most  earnest,  —  we  shall  be  disposed  to  judge  him  with 
unwonted  indulgence,  and  may  perhaps  be  justified  in 
pronouncing  him  as  worthy  of  esteem  and  admiration  as 
any  public  man  can  be  who  lays  claim  to  no  lofty  senti- 
ment, no  stern  principles,  and  no  sj^irit  of  self-denial  or 
self-sacrifice. 

Of  Benjamin  Constant,  the  friend  and  ally  of  jNIadame 
de  Stael  for  upwards  of  twenty  years,  we  have  left  our- 


MADAME  DE  STAEL,  49 

selves  little  space  to  speak  ;  and  in  truth  his  was  a  type 
of  character  with  which,  thoucjh  well  worth  studying, 
we  can  feel  little  sympathy.  He  was  a  second  Voltaire, 
almost  as  clever  as  the  first,  even  more  selfish  and  egotis- 
tical, and  with  none  of  his  redeeming  benevolence  and 
sincerity.  By  universal  consent  he  was,  among  men,  the 
most  brilliant  converser  of  his  age.  All  his  contempo- 
raries speak  of  his  esprit  as  something  perfectly  wonderful 
and  enchanting.  In  the  tribune  he  was  formidable  from 
his  wit  and  pungency.  As  a  writer  he  was  acute,  spark- 
ling, and  subtle.  His  letters  are  models  of  grace  and 
finesse,  —  as  heartless  and  affected  as  those  of  Walpole, 
but  incomparably  cleverer  and  more  entertaining.  But 
he  was  spoilt  and  hlas^  at  a  very  early  age,  —  "used  up" 
before  most  young  men  have  even  begun  to  taste  the  en- 
joyments of  life.  At  the  age  of  three-and-twenty  his 
whole  soul  was  withered  and  dried  up :  *  he  had  tried 
everything,  and  thrown  everything  aside ;  he  had  ana- 
lyzed everything,  and  found  everything  hollow  and  de- 
ceptive ;  he  had  exhausted  the  pleasures  and  interests  of 
the  world,  and  pronounced  them  all  to  be  "  weary,  stale, 
flat,  and  unprofitable."  He  had  "'travelled  from  Dan  to 
Beersheba,  and  found  all  barren."  His  heart  had  beconie 
as  arid  as  the  desert  sand  ;  he  was  a  fcrsifleiir  to  the  very 
core ;  profoundly  cynical  and  profoundly  sceptical,  he 
loved  nothing  and  believed  in  nothing ;  -|-  and  a  deep  and 

*  In  one  of  his  letters  to  Madame  de  Charriere  he  thiis  describes  him- 
self in  1792  :  "Blase  sur  tout,  ennnye  de  tout,  amer,  e.Eroiste,  avec  una 
sorte  de  sensihilite  qui  ne  sert  qu'a  me  tonrmenter,  mobile  au  point  de 
passer  pour  fol,  sujet  a  des  acces  de  melancolie  qui  interrompent  tons 
mes  plans,   et  me  font  agir,  pendant  qu'ils  durent,    comme  si  j'avais 

renonce  a  tout Comment  voulez-vous  que  je  reussisse,  que  je 

plaise,  que  je  vive  ?" 

t  The  work  of  Constant,  "  De  la  Eeligion,"  which  occupied  him  at 
intervals  for  thirty  years,  is  the  only  one  of  magnitude  he  has  left  be- 
hind him  ;  and  it  is  characteristic  of  the  man  that  the  first  portion  and 
outline  of  it  was  written  on  the  backs  of  packs  of  playing-cards.  After 
his  strange  piece  of  political  inconsistency  (joining  Buonaparte  during 
"  the  Hundred  Days"),  he  wrote  an  exculpation  of  himself  to  Louis 
XVIII.,  which  was  favorablj'  received,  and  lie  was  pardoned.  A  friend 
complimented  him  on  the  occasion  :  "  Eh  bien,  votre  memoire  a  reussi  ; 
elle  a  persuade  le  Eoi."  "Jene  m'etonne  pas"  (replied  Constant)  ; 
"  elU  7n'a  presque  persuade  moi-mSme  !  " 

3  D 


50  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

paralyzin.iT  conviction  of  the  brevity  and  worthlessness  of 
life  liad  desolated  all  feeling  and  destroyed  all  energy. 
He  was  one  of  the  most  hopeless  of  characters,  —  an  in- 
tellectual and  self-oT)serving  libertine.  He  had  drank  at 
every  fountain,  -whether  of  refined  or  illicit  pleasure  ;  and 
he  had  analyzed  each  sensation  as  he  locnt  along.  No  deep 
affection,  no  absorbing  passion,  no  earnest  or  solemn 
thought,  seems  ever  to  have  entered  his  heart ;  he  was 
dissolute  en  philosophe  ;  and,  as  the  poet  says,  — 

"  Where  sucli  fairies  once  have  danced, 
No  grass  will  ever  grow." 

In  1790  —  in  the  midst  of  the  heart-stirring  events 
■which  were  then  agitating  his  own  country,  and  exciting 
the  .  attention  of  the  whole  civilized  world  —  he  writes 
thus  to  the  fatal  friend,  Madame  de  Charriere,  whose  con- 
versation and  intimacy  had  so  greatly  contributed  to 
wither  up  his  young  spirit :  — 

*'  Plus  on  y  pense,  et  plus  on  est  at  a  loss  de  chercher  le  cui 
bono  de  cette  sottise  qu'on  appelle  le  monde.  Je  ne  com- 
prends  ni  le  but,  ni  I'architecte,  ni  le  peintre,  ni  les  figures  de 
cette  lantenie  magique  dont  j'ai  I'honneur  de  faire  partie. 
Le  comprendrai-je  mieux  quand  j'aurai  disparu  de  dessus  le 
spTi^re  ^troite  et  obsoiire  dans  laquelle  il  plait  a  je  ne  sals  quel 
invisible  pouvoir  de  me  faire  danser,  bon  gr^,  mal  gre  1     C'est 

ce  que  j'ignore Thomson,  I'auteur  des  Saisons,  passait 

souvent  des  jours  entiers  daus  son  lit,  et  quand  on  lui  de- 
mandait  pourquoi  il  ne  se  levait  pas  :  ^  I  see  no  motive  to  rise, 
man^  r^pondait-il.  Ni  raoi  non  plus,  je  ne  vois  de  motifs 
pour  rien  dans  ce  monde,  et  je  n'ai  de  gout  pour  rien.'' 

Six  months  later  he  writes  again :  — 

"  Ce  n'est  pas  comme  me  trouvant  dans  des  circonstances 
affligeantes  que  je  me  plains  de  la  vie  :  je  suis  parvenu  a  ce 
point  de  desabusement  que  je  ne  saurais  que  desirer  si  tout 
depeudait  de  moi,  et  que  je  suis  convaincu  que  je  ne  serais 
dans  aucime  situation  plus  heureux  que  je  ne  le  suis.  Cette 
conviction  et  le  sentiment  profond  et  constant  de  la  brievete 
de  la  vie  me  fait  tomber  le  livre  ou  la  plume  des  mains, 
toutes  les  fois  que  j'6tudie.  Nous  n'avous  plus  de  motifs 
pour  acqu^rir  de  la  gloire,  pour  conquerir  un  empire  ou  pour 


INIADAME  DE  STAEL.  51 

faire  un  bon  livre,  que  nous  n'en  avons  pour  faire  une  prome- 
nade ou  une  partie  de  whist." 

He  was  in  this  deplorable  state  of  mind  —  the  disen- 
chanted man  of  pleasure,  the  unbelieving  Epicurean,  the 
subtle  analyst  of  himself — when  he  first  (in  1794)  met 
Madame  de  Stael  in  Switzerland.  The  effect  she  produced 
upon  him  was  instantaneous  and  lasting  ;  and  she  would 
have  cured  him  of  his  cynicism  and  Voltairisme,  if  the 
malady  had  not  been  too  deep-seated  for  radical  recovery. 
She  made  him  at  once  almost  earnest  and  enthusiastic. 
For  the  first  time  we  find  in  his  letters  a  tone  of  serious- 
ness and  a  capacity  of  admiration.  He  speaks  of  her 
thus  to  his  old  friend :  — 

"  Je  la  crois  tres  active,  tres  imprudente,  trfes  parlante,  mais 
bonne,  confiante,  et  se  livrant  de  bonne  foi.  Une  preuve 
qu'elle  n'est  pas  uniquement  une  machine  pai'lante,  c'est  le 
vif  interet  qu'elle  prend  a  tous  ceux  qu'elle  a  connus  et  qui 
soufFrent." 

And  a  few  days  afterwards  he  says :  — 

"  Depuis  que  je  la  connais  mieux,  je  trouve  une  grande  diffi- 
cult^  a  ne  pas  me  repandre  sans  cesse  en  eloges,  et  a  ne  pas 
donner  a  tous  ceux  h.  qui  je  parle  le  spectacle  de  mon  interet 
et  de  mon  admiration.  J'ai  rarement  vu  une  reunion  pareille 
de  quahtes  etonnantes  et  attrayantes,  autant  de  brillant  et  de 
justesse,  une  bienveillance  aussi  expansive  et  aussi  ciiltiv^e, 
autant  de  generosite,  une  pohtesse  aussi  douce  et  aussi  sou- 
tenue  dans  le  monde,  tant  de  charme,  de  simplicite,  d'abandou 
dans  la  societe  intime.  C'est  la  seconde  femme  que  j'ai  trou- 
v^e  qui  m'aurait  pu  tenir  lieu  de  tout  I'uuivers,  qui  aurait  pa 
etre  un  monde  a  elle  seule  pour  moi  :  vous  savez  quelle  a  ete 
la  premiere.  Madame  de  Stael  a  infiniment  plus  d'esprit  dans 
la  conversation  intime  que  dans  le  monde  ;  elle  salt  parfaite- 
ment  ^couter,  ce  que  ni  vous  ni  moi  ne  pensions  ;  elle  sent 
I'esprit  des  autres  avec  autant  de  plaisir  que  le  sien  ;  elle  fiiit 
valoir  ceux  qu'elle  aime  avec  une  attention  ingenieuse  et  con- 
stante,  qui  prouve  autant  de  bonte  que  d'esprit.  Enfin,  c'est 
un  etre  a  part,  un  etre  superieur  tel  qu'il  s'en  rencontre  peut- 
etre  un  par  siecle,  et  tel  que  ceux  qui  I'approchent,  le  connais- 
sent  et  sont  ses  amis,  doivent  ne  pas  exiger  d'autre  bonheur." 


62  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

rjcnjamin  Constant  was  faithful  through  life  to  his 
early  admiration  for  this  remarkable  woman  :  he  lived 
much  with  her  botli  at  Paris  and  at  Coppet ;  he  accom- 
panied her  to  Germany ;  and  was  henceforth  one  of  the 
greatest  ornaments  of  her  brilliant  circle.  Of  the  life 
they  led  at  Coppet,  the  following  delicious  picture  is 
given  by  Sainte-Beuve :  — 

"  Les  conversations  philosophiques,  litt^raires,  toiijours  pi- 
quantes  ou  elcvees,  s'engageaieut  vers  onze  heures  du  matin,  S, 
la  reunion  du  dejeuner ;  on  les  r(*sumait  au  diner,  dans  I'in- 
tervalle  du  diner  au  souper,  lequel  avait  lieu  a  onze  heures  du 
soir,  et  encore  au-dela  souvent  jusqu'  apres  minuit.  Benjamin 
Constant  et  Madame  de  Stael  y  tenaient  surtout  le  d6.  C'est 
la  que  Benjamin  Constant,  que,  plus  jeime,  nous  n'avons  guere 
vu  que  blase,  sortant  de  sa  raillerie  trop  inveter^e  par  un  en- 
thousiasme  un  peu  factice,  causeur  toujours  prodigieusement 
spirituel,  mais  chez  qui  I'esprit,  a  la  fin,  avait  herite  de  toutes 
les  autres  facultes  et  passions  phis  puissantes,  c'est  la  qu'il  se 
montrait  avec  feu  et  natui'ellcment  ce  que  Madame  de  Stael  le 
proclamait  sans  i)vi\ent'ion,  le  premier  esprit  dn  7noHd€ :  il  etait 
certes  le  plus  graud  des  hommes  distingues.  Leurs  esprits  du 
moins,  a  tons  les  deux,  se  convenaient  toujours  ;  lis  etaient 
surs  de  s'entendre  par  la.  Rien,  au  dire  des  t^moins,  n'etait 
eblouissant  et  sup6rieur  comme  leur  conversation  engag^e 
dans  ce  cercle  choisi,  eux  deux  tenant  la  raquette  magique  du 
discours,  et  se  renvoyant,  durant  des  heures,  sans  manquer 
jamais,  le  volant  de  mille  pensees  entre-crois6es." 

Under  the  influence  of  IMadame  de  Stael's  enthusiasm, 
Benjamin  Constant  entered  the  career  of  politics,  and 
soon  distinguished  himself  as  liberal  in  opinions  and 
frondeur  by  temper.  But  though  always  eminent,  he 
was  never  powerful.  Au  unrivalled  converser,  an  elo- 
quent orator,  a  brilliant  and  most  interesting  writer,  he 
yet  could  never  attain  a  position  of  real  influence  or 
high  consideration,  and  accomplished  less  than  many  men 
of  far  inferior  capacity.  VChy  was  this  ?  It  ^^•as  simply 
that  all  the  display  of  his  consummate  intellect  was  an 
unreal  show ;  his  heart  was  dust  and  ashes ;  his  character 
was  a  shifting  sand.     He  had  no  strong  convictions,  no 


MADAME  DE  STAfiL.  53 

settled  principles,  no  earnest  purpose.  He  was  a  liberal 
politician,  who  neither  esteemed  nor  loved  his  fellow-men, 
—  a  student  and  professor  of  religion,  who  yet  held  no 
creed  and  could  attain  to  no  faith,  —  a  man  who  had 
skimmed  the  surface  of  every  emotion,  but  never  pene- 
trated to  the  depth  or  the  dignity  of  a  passion.  A  mock- 
ing spirit  presided  over  his  whole  being ;  to  him  there 
was  nothing  reverend ;  for  him  there  was  nothing  sacred. 
He  had  early  profaned  the  Temple  of  the  Lord,  and  the 
mois  divinior  fled  from  the  desecrated  shrine,  and  left  it 
empty,  desolate,  and  unclean. 


BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS. 

""TTX  Philosophe  sous  les  Toits,"  by  M.  Emile  Sou- 
LJ.  vestre,  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  and  prettiest  little 
books  that  has  ever  fallen  into  our  hands.  It  is  the  more 
interesting  and  surprising  as  having  issued  from  the 
press  of  Paris ;  and,  after  the  vehement,  diseased,  and 
bacchanalian  pages  of  Balzac,  Eugene  Sue,  and  Victor 
Hugo,  is  medicine  to  our  scandalized  morality,  balm  to 
our  wounded  sensibility,  rest  to  the  wearied  fancy,  and 
positive  refreshment  to  the  irritated  eye.  To  come  to  it 
after  such  reading  is  like  the  "  crystalline  fount "  after  the 
"  feculent  flood," —  like  the  "  pure  breezes  of  morn  "  after 
the  heated  and  morbific  atmosphere  of  the  hospital  or 
the  gaming-house,  —  like  the  green  fields  and  fresh  vege- 
tation of  the. country  and  the  spring,  after  the  glare  and 
fumes  of  a  gaudy  and  gas-lighted  theatre.  We  feel  that 
we  have  escaped  from  intoxication  to  sobriety,  from  the 
vortex  of  passion  to  the  peace  of  nature,  from  that  which 
is  simply  noxious  or  revolting,  to  that  which  gives  true 
pleasure  and  does  real  good; 

We  rejoice  to  see  that  such  a  book  can  come  out  of  the 
heart  of  France,  —  that  such  pictures  can  still  be  relished 
there,  —  that  sucli  a  life  as  is  here  depicted  can  stiU  be 
led  there.  For  though  the  tone  of  the  book  is  pure,  and 
all  its  sentiments  are  humane,  genial,  and  gentle,  it  is  as 
remote  as  possible  from  anything  mawkish  or  maudlin. 
It  has  nothing  of  the  pastoral  tenderness,  the  overdone 
Arcadianism,  M-liich  made  the  popularity  of  the  romance 
of  Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre  nearly  as  sure  a  sign  of  an  un- 
healthy state  of  the  public  mind  as  the  licentious  novels 


BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS.  55 

that  appeared  at  the  same  time,  and  divided  with  it  the 
favor  of  the  reading  world  of  France.  Nor  has  it  any- 
closer  similarity  to  the  Swiss  love-stories,  and  pictures 
and  praises  of  savage  life,  with  which  Eousseau  dazzled 
and  delighted  the  fancy  of  the  profligate  and  sophisti- 
cated dames  of  Paris,  in  the  heinous  days  of  Louis  XV. 
Its  pathos  is  all  nlitural ;  its  sentiments  are  all  genuine 
and  unforced,  —  the  reflections  of  a  contented  and  kind- 
hearted  man  who  philosophizes  'from  his  garret  on  the 
motley  world  beneath  him,  and  mingles  with  it  in  his 
own  humble  sphere.  It  indicates  that  there  is  still  a  por- 
tion of  the  heart  of  France  sound  and  unperverted ;  and 
what  is  more  to  our  immediate  purpose,  it  gives 'a  very 
interesting  glimpse  into  some  of  those  points  of  Conti- 
nental life  and  character,  in  which  it  has  a  marked  supe- 
riority to  our  own,  —  peculiarities  which  it  would  be  well 
if  we  could  transplant,  and  which  inchue  us  to  a  certain 
uncomfortable  misoivincr  that  some  of  our  aims  and 
exertions  may  "be  sadly  misdirected,  and  that  we  may, 
oftener  than  we  deem,  be  sailing  on  a  wrong  tack. 

The  book  is  in  the  form  of  fragments  from  the  diary 
of  a  man  of  fair  education  and  of  very  humble  fortunes, 
such  as  may  be  found  in  numbers,  not  only  in  Paris,  but 
all  over  the  Continent,  who  lives  solitary  and  contented 
in  his  garret,  supporting  himself  in  tolerable  comfort  on 
the  meagre  salary  of  a  subordinate  government  employe, 
content  with  poverty  while  secure  against  indigence, 
watching  the  world  around  him  with  a  cheerful  and  sympa- 
thizing smile,  and  enjoying  the  good  things  of  life  rather 
by  contemplation  than  by  actual  participation.  Unambi- 
tious and  unstriving,  too  wise  to  risk  that  scanty  stipend 
which  moderate  desires  and  skilful  management  have 
made  into  a  competence  for  vaster  but  more  precarious 
gains,  he  finds  that  everything  conspires  to  teach  him  the 
same  lesson,  namely,  in  how  small  an  apartment  happi- 
ness may  dwell,  and  how  cheaply  that  apartment  may  be 
furnished.  Observation,  ever  on  the  alert,  preserves  hini 
alike  from  envy  or  repining  :  he  sees  from  liis  attic  win- 
dow the  luxurious  furniture  of  one  opposite  neighbor,  an 


5G  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

actress  or  singer,  seized  for  debt,  and  lier  chamber  rudely 
dismantled ;  and  the  humble  but  always  neat  room  of 
another  vis-a-vis,  a  sempstress,  secure  in  its  jjlodding  and 
unas])iring  poverty.  He  returns  from- a  homely  supper, 
—  the  one  festal  banquet  of  the  year,  —  shared  with  a 
family  yet  poorer  tlian  himself,  and  remembers  that  he 
left  the  unrefined  but  joyous  circle  with  the  regretful  ex- 
clamation, Deja  !  and  he  meets  the  opulent  lady  who  oc- 
cupies the  first  floor  of  the  house  next  his  own,  returning 
jaded  and  ennuy^e  from  those  gilded  saloons  where  no  joy 
is,  and  getting  out  of  her  carriage  with  the  yawning  ejac- 
ulation, "  Enfin  !  "  On  New-Year's  Day,  when  it  is  cus- 
tomary in  France,  and  indeed  throughout  the  Continent, 
to  visit  friends  and  give  or  receive  presents,  our  yjliiloso- 
pher,  who  had  no  friends,  and  was  too  poor  to  make  pres- 
ents, was  sitting  somewhat  moodily  in  his  garret,  for  his 
fire  would  not  light,  the  day  was  rainy  and  the  wood  was 
damp,  there  was  no  milk  left  for  breakfast,  and  the  pot 
of  sweetmeat  was  quite  empty.  There  is  a  knock  at 
the  door,  and  Paulette  enters,  —  a  pale,  thin,  ill-dressed 
little  girl,  whose  life  he  had  saved  in  a  crowd  two  years 
before. 

"  II  y  a  devix  ans  de  cela ;  depuis,  je  n'avais  revu  la  petite 
qu'a  de  longs  intervalles,  et  je  I'avais  presque  oubliee  ;  mais 
Paulette  a  la  memoire  des  bons  coeurs  ;  elle  vient  an  renou- 
vellemeut  de  I'ann^e  m'ofFrir  ses  souhaits  de  bonlieur.  Ello 
m'apporte,  en  outre,  un  plant  de  violettes  en  fleurs  ;  elle-meme 
I'a  mis  en  terre  et  cultiv^ ;  c'est  un  bien  qui  lui  appartient 
tout  entier,  car  il  a  6t6  conquis  par  ses  soins,  sa  volonte,  et  sa 
patience.  Ce  present  inattendu,  la  rougeur  modeste  de  la 
petite  fille,  et  son  compliment  balbutie  dissipent,  comme  un 
rayon  du  soleil,  I'espece  de  brouillard  qui  m'euveloppait  le 
coeur ;  mes  idees  passeut  brusquement  des  teintes  plonibees 
du  soir  aux  teintes  les  plus  roses  de  I'aurore.  Je  fais  asseoir 
Paulette,  et  je  I'interroge  gaiement. 

"  La  petite  repoud  d'abord  par  des  mouosvllabes,  mais  bien- 
tot  les  rules  sout  renverses,  et  c'est  moi  qui  eutrecoupe  de 
courtes  interjections  ses  longues  confidences.  La  pauvre  en- 
fant mene  uue  vie  difficile,  Orplieline  depuis  lougtemps,  elle 
est  rest^e,  avec  son  fr^re  et  sa  soeur,  a  la  charge  d'une  vieille 


BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS.  57' 

grand'm^re  qvii  les  a  eleves  de  misere,  comme  elle  a  coutume  de 
le  dii'e.  Cependant  Paulette  I'aide  maintenant  dans  la  con- 
fection des  cartonnages,  sa  petite  soeur  Perrine  commence  a 
condre,  et  Henri  est  apprenti  dans  une  imprimerie.  Tout 
irait  bien,  sans  les  pertes  et  sans  les  chomages,  sans  les  habits 
qui  s'usent,  sans  les  appetits  qui  grandissent,  sans  I'hiver  qui 
oblige  a  acheter  son  soleil  !  Paulette  se  plaint  de  ce  que  la 
chandelle  dure  trop  pen  et  de  ce  que  le  bois  coute  trop  cher. 
La  cheminee  de  leur  niansarde  est  si  grande  qu'une  falourde 
y  produit  I'efFet  d'une  allumctte  ;  elle  est  si  pres  du  toit  que 
le  vent  y  renvoit  la  pluie,  et  qu'ou  y  gele  sur  I'atre  en  hiver  ; 
aussi  y  ont-ils  renonc^.  Tout  se  borne  d^sormais  a  un  rechaud 
de  terre  sur  lequel  cuit  le  repas.  La  grand'mere  avait  bien 
parl6  d'un  poele  marchande  chez  le  revendeur  du  rez-de-chaus- 
see  ;  mais  celui-ci  en  a  voulu  sept  francs,  et  les  temps  sont 
trop  difficiles  pour'  une  pareille  depense  ;  la  famille  s'est  en 
consequence  resignee  a  avoir  froid  par  economic." 

The  philosopher  resolves  to  gratify  his  feelings  by  mak- 
ing this  poor  family  a  New-Year's  present  of  their  coveted 
stove.  Accordingly  he  gets  an  old  one  of  his  own  repaired 
and  put  up  in  their  room  while  all  are  absent  at  their 
daily  work,  and  takes  them  besides  a  basket  of  wood 
out  of  his  own  winter  provision,  observing  that  the  sacri- 
fice will  only  oblige  him  to  warm  himself  by  walking,  or 
by  going  to  bed  earlier  than  usual. 

The  above  extract  may  serve  as  a  specimen  of  this  little 
,  volume,  and  may  explain  wherein  lies  its  charm.  There 
is  nothing  remarkable  in  the  events  it  relates,  nothing 
brilliant  in  the  pictures  which  it  draws ;  but  an  air  of 
cheerful  and  healthy  serenity  broods  over  every  page,  and 
bespeaks  a  mind  that  has  penetrated  the  true  secret  of 
life,  and  harvested  its  richest  wisdom.  Probably,  how- 
ever, the  real  cause  of  the  pleasure  which  the  book  is 
calculated  to  convey  arises  from  the  contrast  between  its 
atmosphere  of  repose,  and  the  feverish  and  busy  world  in 
which  we  live,  and  from  the  somewhat  pregnant  philo- 
sophical reflections  which  its  perusal  irresistibly  suggests. 
It  depicts  the  best  and  pleasantest  features  of  Continental 
life,  and  makes  us  pause  awhile  in  our  breathless  and 
unceasing  race,  to  consider  whether  we  might  not,  with 

3* 


58  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

advantage  both  to  soul  and  body,  take  a  leaf  out  of  our 
neighbor's  book. 

The  extremes  of  character  in  civilized  man  are  to  be 
found  in  the  Asiatic  and  the  American,  —  the  silent,  dig- 
nified, placid,  and  stagnant  Mussulman,  and  the  striv- 
ing, pushing,  restless,  progressive  Yankee.  Between  these 
extremes  lie  the  easy  and  joyous  Celt,  generally  content- 
ed with  the  passing  hour,  l)ut  often  contented  witli  too 
little  ;  the  stationary  and  phlegmatic  German  of  the  South, 
cautious  and  unaspiring,  frugal  and  complacent ;  the  Nor- 
wegian, whose  life  in  most  things  resembles  that  of  his 
Teutonic  brethren  ;  the  Swiss,  who  approximate  nearer  to 
ourselves  ;  and  finally  tlie  British,  only  a  few  degrees  less 
ambitious,  insatiable,  unresting,  and  discontented  than 
their  western  offspring.  In  the  appendix  to  the  second 
part  of  Layard's  "  Nineveh,"  there  is  a  letter  from  a  Turk- 
ish Cadi,  so  thoroughly  Oriental  in  its  spirit,  so  exactly 
portraying  those  peculiar  features  of  character  in  which 
the  East  differs  from  the  West,  and  so  amusingly  astound- 
ing to  men  accustomed  to  look  upon  exertion,  the  acqui- 
sition of  knowledge,  and  the  progress  of  wealth  as  the 
great  ends  of  existence,  that  we  cannot  do  better  than 
quote  it.  The  traveller  had  astonished  the  weak  mind 
of  liis  Mussulman  friend,  by  applying  to  him  for  some 
statistical  information  regarding  the  city  and  province  in 
which  he  had  dwelt  so  long  as  a  man  in  authority.  The 
Turk  replies  with  this  dignified  and  affectionate  rebuke  :  — 

"  My  illustrious  friend,  and  joy  of  my  liver ! 

"  The  thing  you  ask  of  me  is  both  difficult  and  useless. 
Although  I  have  passed  all  my  days  in  this  place,  I  have 
neither  counted  the  houses  nor  have  I  inquired  into  the 
number  of  the  inhabitants  ;  and  as  to  what  one  person  loads 
on  his  mules,  and  another  stows  away  in  the  bottom  of  his 
ship,  that  is  no  business  of  mine.  But  above  all,  as  to  the 
previous  histoiy  of  this  city,  God  only  knows  the  amount  of 
dirt  and  confusion  that  the  infidels  may  have  eaten  before  the 
coming  of  the  sword  of  Islam.  It  were  improfitable  for  us  to 
inquire  into  it. 

"  0  my  sold !  0  my  lamb !    seek    not  after    the    things 


BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS.  59 

which  concern  thee  not.     Thou  earnest  unto  us,  and  we  wel- 
comed thee  :  go  in  peace. 

"  Of  a  truth,  thou  hast  spoken  many  words ;  and  there  is 
no  harm  done,  for  the  speaker  is  one  and  the  Hstener  is  another. 
After  the  fashion  of  thy  people,  thou  hast  wandered  from  one 
place  to  another,  until  thou  art  happy  and  content  in  none. 
We  (praise  be  to  God)  were  born  here,  and  never  desii'e  to  quit 
it.  Is  it  possible,  then,  that  the  idea  of  a  general  intercourse 
between  mankind  should  make  any  impression  on  our  under- 
standing 1     God  forbid ! 

"  Listen,  0  my  son  !  There  is  no  wisdom  equal  unto  the 
belief  in  God.  He  created  the  world  ;  and  shall  we  liken  our- 
selves to  him  in  seeking  to  penetrate  the  mysteries  of  his 
creation  ]  Shall  we  say,  Behold  this  star  spinneth  round  that 
star,  and  this  other  star  with  a  tail  cometh  and  goeth  in  so 
many  years '?  Let  it  go  !  He  from  whose  hand  it  came  will 
direct  and  guide  it. 

"  But  thou  wilt  say  unto  me,  Stand  aside,  0  man,  for  I 
am  more  learned  than  thou  art,  and  have  seen  more  things. 
If  thou  thinkest  that  thou  art  in  this  respect  better  than  I 
am,  thou  art  welcome.  I  pi'aise  God  that  I  seek  not  that 
which  I  require  not.  Thou  art  learned  in  the  things  I  care 
not  for  ;  and  as  for  that  which  thou  hast  seen,  I  defile  it. 
Will  much  knowledge  create  thee  a  double  stomach,  or  wilt 
thou  seek  Pai'adise  with  thine  eyes  1 

"  0  my  friend !     If  thou   wilt   be   happy,    say.   There  is 
no  God  but  God  !     Do  no  evil,  and  thus  wilt  thou  fear  neither 
man  nor  death  ;  for  surely  thine  hour  will  come  ! 
'-  The  meek  in  spirit  (El  Fakir) 

"Imaum  Ali  Tade." 

We  think  our  readers  will  agree  with  us  that  there  is 
something  very  touching  in  this  singular  effusion,  with 
its  strange  mixture  of  complacent  ignorance  and  pious 
trust,  its  content  bordering  on  apathy,  and  its  lofty  com- 
passion for  the  laborious  follies  of  the  struggling  and  toil- 
ing Frank.  Of  course  we  are  not  writing  to  recommend 
such  a  state  of  mind.  "VYe  merely  wish  to  observe  that 
it  contains  the  germ  and  element  of  a  wisdom  to  which 
our  busy  bustling  existence  is  a  stranger.  As  a  pendant 
to  this  epistle  we  may  give  an  anecdote  that  we  once 


GO  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 


heard  of  that  class  of  Celts  who  in  insouciant  content 
most  nearly  resemble  the  Asiatics.  A  cosmopolite  trav- 
eller, journeying  in  Lower  Canada,  was  one  day  greatly 
struck  by  the  contrast  in  the  appearance  of  two  adjoining 
])r()perties,  both  having  a  river  frontage,  both  enjoying  a 
fertile  soil,  and  apparently  exactly  alike  in  all  natuial 
advantages.  The  tirst  was  admirably  farmed,  and  neatly 
kept ;  the  house  homely  but  substantial,  and  in  good  re- 
l)uir ;  the  fences  strong,  uniform,  and  in  faultless  order. 
This  belonged  to  an  Englishman.  The  adjacent  larm  was 
in  a  very  different  condition  ;  the  flocks  and  herds  were 
ani})le ;  the  crops  not  bad,  and  the  dwelling  large  and 
ample  ;  there  was  no  appearance  of  poverty,  but  every 
sign  of  indolence  and  carelessness,  —  the  buildings  dilap- 
idated, the  roofs  defective,  the  fences,  not  indeed  ineffi- 
cient, but  patched,  as  you  seldom  see  except  in  Ireland, 
with  odds  and  ends  of  trees,  old  gates,  etc ;  here  a  gap 
stopped  by  a  plough ;  there  a  break  made  good  by  a  cart 
tilted  up  in  the  opening.  Our  narrator  visited  the  owner, 
a  French  colonist,  and  received  of  course  a  most  hospitable 
welcome.  His'host  was  cheerful  and  complacent.  After 
some  conversation  the  visitor  remarked  that  the  roof  was 
broken  through  in  one  or  two  places,  and  let  in  the  rain. 
"  C'est  egal "  (said  the  proprietor),  "I  have  only  to  move  my 
bed  to  another  part.  I  can  always  find  a  dry  corner  to 
lie  in."  "But,"  observed  the  traveller,  "I  notice  that 
your  fences  are  in  the  same  state,  full  of  holes  and  make- 
shifts." "  Qu'est-ce  que  cela  fait  ? "  (asked  the  host)  "  they 
do  well  enough  to  keep  my  cattle  in  and  other  people's 
out !  "  "  Possibly  "  (replied  the  traveller),  "  but  look  at 
your  neighbor,  in  what  beautiful  condition  his  hedges  and- 
divisions  are  kept."  This  was  too  much  for  the  French- 
man :  his  native  piiilosophy  broke  out  at  once.  "  Ah  oui ! 
Jc  miserable  ! "  he  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  indescribable 
contempt ;  "  that  man  toils  from  morning  till  night ;  is 
up  before  daylight,  and  working  after  dark  ;  never  goes  to 
merry-makings :  I  would  not  be  like  him  for  Morlds.  I 
lia\e  enough  :  what  need  I  more  ?  Can  a  man  cat  iciih 
two  spoons  I " 


BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS.  61 

But  apart  from  these  extreme  cases  of  content  where 
content  ought  not  to  ,be,  it  is  impossible  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  those  instances  of  rational  and  well-founded 
satisfaction  with  a  most  moderate  and  limited  present,  of 
whicli  Continental  life  offers  us  so  many  examples,  with- 
out feeling,  or  at  least  suspecting,  that,  as  compared  with 
our  hurried,  and  turmoiliug  existence,  our  neighbors  have 
chosen  the  better  part.  Look  at  Norway,  for  example, 
which  has  attained,  as  nearly  as  possible,  to  that  "  sta- 
tionary state  "  which  most  economists  regard  with  dread, 
aversion,  and  a  feeling  akin  to  shame.  There  the  in- 
habitants may  be  said  to  form  one  vast  middle  class ; 
there  is  no  great  wealth,  no  absolute  destitution ;  peasants 
and  proprietors  live  on  together,  generation  after  genera- 
tion, on  the  same  land,  and  much  in  the  same  style  as 
their  forefathers ;  fuel  and  food,  though  simple,  are  both 
abundant ;  the  men  till  the  soil  and  fell  the  timber  ;  the 
women  manufacture  at  home  the  clothing  they  need  ; 
each  man's  life,  whether  he  be  farmer,  laborer,  or  artisan, 
is  pretty  much  cut  out  for  him  by  circumstances  and 
custom;  as  he  grows  up,  he  steps  into  the  vacant  niche 
in  the  community  which  was  waiting  for  him  (or  if  not 
vacant,  he  waits  for  it),  without  any  thought  of  exchanging 
it  for  a  difterent  one,  or  struggling  out  of  it  into  one 
higher  ;  there  is  much  comfort,  but  little  luxury  ;  much 
cheerfulness,  perhaps  too  much  conviviality;  there  is  gen- 
eral equality  and  general  content.  It  is  easy  to  live  there, 
—  not  easy,  scarcely  possible,  to  grow  rich  ;  the  country 
is  peopled  pretty  nearly  up  to  its  resources,  so  that  popu- 
lation can  increase  but  slowly  ;  as  young  men  and  maidens 
arrive  at  maturity,  they  fall  in  love,  and  are  betrothed  as 
elsewhere,  but  they  do  not  marry  till  a  "  houseman  "  dies, 
or  till,  in  some  way  or  other,  room  is  made  for  them  ; 
their  sole  desire  and  aim  is,  to  enjoy  their  natural  sliare 
of  the  goods  of  life,  but  not  to  increase  that  share  beyond 
the  usual  rate ;  they  are  satisfied  to  equal,  and  do  not 
aspire  to  surpass  their  father's  lot.  Thus  their  existence 
glides  on  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  broken  by  no 
tumultuous  crises,  embittered  by  uo  pressing  anxieties, 


62  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

shortened  b}''  no  fierce  competition,  goaded  by  no  Mild 
ambition,  darkened  by  no  dismal  failures  ;  but  happy 
in  a  continuous  activity,  moderate  in  its  aim,  and  sure  of 
its  reward.     Tliey  are  stationary,  but  not  stagnant. 

In  Auvergne,  \ve  find  a  state  of  society  almost  pre- 
cisely similar.  There  the  ]ieasants  are  nearly  all  pro- 
prietors, and  often  rich,  for  they  spend  little  and  cultivate 
well.  The  hoardings,  Avhen  spent  at  all,  are  spent  in 
land  ;  everything  is  made  at  home  ;  sometimes  literally 
nothing  is  bought  except  the  drugs  to  dye  their  wool ; 
they  live  simply  but  plentifully  ;  and  generation  succeeds 
generation  in  the  same  industrious  and  monotonous  con- 
tent. Wars  and  revolutions  pass  over  tlieir  country  ;  but 
they  scarcely  hear  of  them,  and  rarely  feel  them.  In 
Switzerland,  too,  especially  in  the  cantons  of  Berne  and 
Zurich,  we  find  much  of  the  same  primitive,  unvarying, 
and  enjoyable  existence,  though  liere  the  curse  of  "  in- 
debtedness," which  seems  inseparable  from  the  law  of 
equal  succession,  often  sheds  a  perpetual  gloom  over  the 
life  of  the  peasant  proprietor.  But  when  he  has  escaped 
this  evil,  and  has  found  the  small  estate  which  sufficed  to 
his  ancestors  suffice  for  him  also,  and  when  his  younger 
brothers  have  gone  to  foreign  countries,  to  seek  or  make 
their  fortunes,  —  the  Swiss  farmer  has  always  appeared 
to  us  to  enjoy  one  of  the  happiest  of  human  lots.  Edu- 
cated, industrious,  pious,  and  patriotic,  the  citizen  of  a 
free  state  small  enough  for  him  to  feel  an  appreciable 
unit  among  its  inhabitants,  —  in  a  situation  which  nour- 
ishes no  ambition  that  he  may  not  readily  gmtify,  and 
yet  exempts  him  from  those  gloomy  cares  and  foi'ebod- 
ings  as  to  the  future,  which  wear  away  the  lives  and 
sadden  the  domestic  circle  of  thousands  among  the  Ameri- 
cans and  English,  —  there  is  much  in  his  existence  which 
we  may  well  envy,  and  not  a  little  which,  perhaps,  we 
might  emulate. 

In  Germany,  especially  in  Central  and  Southern  Ger- 
many, we  find  a  numerous  class  of  middle  life, —  to 
which  we  have  no  analogon  in  England, —  who  possess 
an  assured  but  a  moderate  competence  at  which  they  are 


BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS.  63 

certain  to  arrive  in  time.  They  have  not,  as  in  England, 
when  they  have  chosen  their  profession,  and  undergone 
.  their  education,  to  phmge  into  the  hot  strife  and  race  of 
competition,  and  take  their  chance  of  obtaining  a  main- 
tenance or  a  prize  by  overcoming  and  distancing  their 
rivals.  If  they  have  passed  through  the  ordained  cur- 
riculum and  performed  the  required  tasks,  their  future  is 
provided  for,  and  they  have  only  to  wait  for  its  realiza- 
tion, which  comes  indeed  a  few  years  sooner  or  later,  but 
about  the  advent  of  which  they  need  to  give  themselves 
no  anxiety.  As  functionary,  or  surgeon,  or  lawyer,  or 
master  tradesman,  their  turn  will  come  as .  soon  as  the 
niche  they  were  destined  to  fill  becomes  vacant ;  for  the 
government,  by  its  complicated  and  vigilant  arrangements, 
has  taken  care  that  no  profession  shall  be  overstocked, 
that  there  shall  be  no  more  aspirants  than  there  are  posts 
for  them  to  fill.  We  "are  not  now  expressing  any  opin- 
ion as  to  the  advisability  of  such  a  system  of  leading- 
strings  ;  we  only  call  attention  to  one  of  its  effects, — 
which  is  the  exemption  of  a  large  proportion  of  the  mid- 
dle and  educated  classes  from  harassing  anxieties  about 
their  future  or  that  of  their  children,  and  the  consequent 
diffusion  of  a  sort  of  quiet  happiness  and  somewhat  apa- 
thetic content  of  which  here  we  have  no  conception. 
These  men  of  scanty  but  of  certain  expectations  enjoy 
the  present  in  a  respectable  and  often  most  worthy  man- 
ner ;  they  are  educated,  and  have  a  moderate  amount  of 
intellectual  and  more  of  aesthetic  taste ;  they  love  social 
pleasures,  and  have  ample  leisure  for  them  ;  unless  sin- 
gularly gifted,  they  know  they  must  remain  in  the  hum- 
ble sphere  in  which  their  route  is  traced ;  they  have  no 
grandeur  to  hope  for,  and  no  destitution  to  fear ;  Us  ont 
de  qitoi  vivre,  as  the  expression  is,  and  in  order  to  be 
thoroughly  happy  need  only  to  cut  down  their  desires  to 
the  level  of  their  means.  Their  life  is  a  quietl}^  flowing- 
stream,  somewhat  languid,  perhaps,  with  many  bright 
flowers  growing  on  its  banks,  which  they  have  leisure 
both  to  admire  and  to  cull ;  they  do  perhaps  little  for 
their  generation,  but  they  lead  a  not  undignilied,  and  as- 


64  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

suredly  not  an  unenjoyed  or  morose,  existence  ;  they  may 
cultivate  all  the  amenities,  and  affections,  and  many  even 
of  the  elegances  of  the  domestic  circle,  and  if  their 
minds  are  well  trained  and  furnished,  they  may  add  to 
these  the  pleasures  of  calm  and  contemplative  literary 
habits.  Yet  their  income  is  of  an  amount  whicli  (after 
making  full  allowance  for  the  different  cost  of  living  in 
the  two  countries)  with  us  would  be  considered  as  utterly 
inadequate  to  afford  means  for  a  liappy  or  comfortalile 
life,  and  to  be  content  with  which  would  be  held  to  argue 
deplorable  want  of  energy  and  enterprise. 

In  France,  too, —  though  long  years  of  change  and  con- 
vulsion have  diffused  a  longing  discontent  and  restless- 
ness througli  the  urban  population,  which  too  often  is  fever 
only  and  not  energy,  —  there  still  remain  many  in  mod- 
erate and  humble  circumstances,  professional  men,  clerks, 
and  subordinate  cmjjioj/es,  who,  on  a  pittance  which  would 
be  considered  as  grinding  poverty  in  England,  contrive 
not  only  to  support  life,  but  to  embellish  it  and  enjoy  it. 
They  make  the  best  of  what  they  have,  instead  of  anx- 
iously striving  to  increase  it.  They  "  cut  their  coat  ac- 
cording to  their  cloth."  They  are  not  tormented  by  the 
desire  to  imitate  or  to  equal  those  to  whom  fortune  has 
been  more  bountiful.  They  are  contented  to  cnjoi/,  while 
their  analogues  in  England  would  be  fretfully  la];toring  to 
acquire.  They  are  not,  as  we  are,  forever  haunted  by 
something  in  the  distance  to  be  obtained  or  to  be  escaped. 
They  do  not,  like  us,  immolate  the  possessed  present  on 
the  shrine  of  an  uncertain  future.  They  do  not  pull 
down  their  house  to  build  their  monument.  They  per- 
form cheerfully  and  faithfully  their  humble  and,  perhaps, 
uninteresting  functions,  and  devote  the  rest  of  their  time 
to  simple,  social,  unambitious  enjoyments.  There  are 
others  again  who,  finding  themselves  at  their  entrance 
into  life  in  possession  of  a  moderate  competence,  —  a 
small  patrimonial  inheritance, —  deliberately  pause  to  de- 
cide on  their  career.  On  the  one  side  lie  the  possibilities 
of  wealth,  the  gauds  of  distinction,  the  gratification  of 
commercial  or  political  success,  to  be  purchased  by  har- 


BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS.  65 

assing  and  irritating  strife,  by  carking  cares,  by  severe 
and  unremitting  toil.  On  the  other,  lie  the  charms  of  a 
life  of  unaspiring  ease,  of  quiet  nights  and  unanxious 
days,  of  the  free  enjoyment  of  the  present  hour,  —  some- 
thing of  a  butterfly  existence,  in  short.  Nine  Yankees 
out  of  ten  would  choose  the  former;  nine  Frenchmen 
out  of  ten  will  prefer  the  latter.  We  do  not  here  intend 
to  pronounce  which  is  right ;  but  it  is  hard  to  persuade 
ourselves  that  all  the  wisdom  —  all  the  true  estimate  of 
the  objects  and  the  worth  of  life  —  lies  with  the  man 
who  decides  for  the  thornier  and  rougher  path. 

Now  let  us  cast  a  glance  at  the  contrasted  tone  of 
English  and  American  social  existence :  we  may  class 
them  together,  for  the  main  difference  is,  that  in  Amer- 
ica our  state  of  struggle  is  even  more  universal,  and  car- 
ried on  under  more  favorable  prospects  of  success.  And 
we  have  still  a  few  who  cling  to  the  "  even  tenor  "  of  ex- 
istence as  the  preferable  state :  in  our  exaggerated  and 
caricaturing  descendants,  scarcely  any  such  are  to  be 
found.  Now,  we  are  no  advocates  for  a  life  of  inaction 
and  repose.  Activity  is  better  than  stagnation  ;  exertion 
in  pursuit  of  any  object  is  better  than  an  existence  with 
no  object  at  all.  "We  know  well  that  out  of  dissatisfac- 
tion with  our  present  condition  have  arisen  all  our  suc- 
cessful conquests  of  higher  and  more  desirable  condi- 
tions ;  that  to  the  restless  energy  and  aspiring  temper  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon  may  be  traced  a  large  proportion  of  the 
material  progress,  and  not  a  little  of  the  intellectual  pro- 
gress, of  the  world  ;  that  civilization,  if  it  does  not  consist 
in  perpetual  advance,  at  least  owes  its  origin  and  present 
perfection  to  perpetual  endeavor.  But  we  cannot  permit 
ourselves  to  regard  the  struggle  to  be  rich  as  worthy  of 
admiration  for  itself.  We  cannot  bring  ourselves  to  re- 
gard the  gallant  and  persevering  energy  which  is  devoted 
to  "  getting  on  in  life,"  as  consecrated  to  a  high  aim.  We 
cannot  persuade  ourselves  at  once,  and  without  inquiry, 
as  many  do,  to  pronounce  the  life  that  enjoys,  as  ipso 
facto,  and  per  se,  meaner  than  the  life  that  toils.     We 


66  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

mourn  over  energies  wasted  by  misdirection,  as  well  as 
over  energies  suliercd  to  lie  dormant  and  die  out.  The 
man  who  strives  for  a  clear  duty  or  a  noble  prize  is  be- 
yond question  a  higher  and  worthier  being  than  the  man 
who  glides  througli  life  in  happy  and  innocent  tranquil- 
lity ;  but  we  are  by  no  means  so  sure  that  the  man  who, 
having  a  ccym-pdcncc,  spends  years,  and  strength,  and 
spirits,  and  temper,  in  striving  for  a  fortune,  has  made  a 
wiser  or  a  better  choice  than  the  man  who,  having  a  com- 
petence, sits  down  thankfully  and  contentedly  to  enjoy  it 
with  his  family  and  friends.  To  he  able  to  make  "  the 
future  and  the  distant  predominate  over  the  present,"  is 
unquestionably  to  have  risen  in  the  scale  of  thinking 
beings ;  but  it  by  no  means  follows  that  whatever  is 
distant  and  future  ought  to  predominate  over  what  is 
present  and  at  hand.  We  agree  altogether  in  the  tone 
of  the  following  remarks  from  the  pen  of  our  first  and 
most  genial  political  economist :  — 

"  I  cannot  regard  a  stationary  state  of  capital  and  wealth 
with  the  unaffected  aversion  manifested  towards  it  by  politi- 
cal economists  of  the  old  school.  I  am  inclined  to  believe 
that  it  would  be,  on  the  whole,  a  very  considerable  improve- 
ment on  our  present  condition.  I  confess  I  am  not  charmed 
with  the  ideal  of  life  held  out  by  those  who  think  that  the 
normal  state  of  human  beings  is  that  of  struggling  to  get  on  ; 
that  the  trampling,  crushing,  elbowing,  treading  on  each 
other's  heels,  which  form  the  existing  type  of  social  life,  are 
the  most  desirable  lot  of  human  kind,  or  anything  but  the 
disagreeable  symptoms  of  one  of  the  phases  of  industrial  pro- 
gress. The  Northern  and  Middle  States  of  America  are  a 
specimen  of  this  stage  of  civilization  in  very  favorable  cir- 
cumstances ;  having  apparently  got  rid  of  all  social  injustices 
and  inequalities  that  affect  persons  of  Caucasian  race  and  of 
the  male  sex,  while  the  proportion  of  population  to  capital 
and  land  is  such  as  to  insure  abundance  to  exerj  able-bodied 
member  of  the  community  who  does  not  forfeit  it  by  miscon- 
duct. They  have  the  six  points  of  chartism,  and  they  have 
no  poverty ;  and  all  that  these  advantages  seem  as  yet  to 
have  done  for  them  (notwithstanding  some  incipient  signs  of 
a  better  tendency)  is,  that  the  life  of  the  whole  of  one  sex 


BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS.  67 

is  devoted  to  dollar-hunting,  and  of  the  other  to  breeding 
dollar-hunters.  This  is  not  a  kind  of  social  perfection  which 
philanthropists  to  come  will  feel  any  very  eager  desire  to  as- 
sist in  realizing.  Most  fitting  indeed  is  it,  that  while  riches 
are  power,  and  to  grow  as  rich  as  possible  the  universal  object 
of  ambition,  the  path  to  its  attainment  should  be  open  to  all, 
without  favor  or  partiality.  But  the  best  state  for  human 
nature  is  that  in  which,  while  no  one  is  poor,  no  one  desires 
to  be  richer,  nor  has  any  reason  to  fear  being  thrust  back  by 
the  efforts  of  others  to  push  themselves  forward. 

"  That  the  energies  of  mankind  should  be  kept  in  employ- 
ment by  the  struggle  for  riches,  as  they  were  formerly  by  the 
struggle  of  war,  until  the  better  minds  succeed  in  educating 
the  others  to  better  things,  is  undoubtedly  more  desirable 
than  that  they  should  rust  and  stagnate.  While  minds  are 
coarse,  they  require  coarse  stimuli ;  and  let  them  have  them. 
In  the  mean  time,  those  who  do  not  accept  the  present  very 
early  stage  of  human  improvement  as  its  ultimate  type,  may 
be  excused  for  being  comparatively  indifferent  to  the  mere 
increase  of  production  and  accumulation.  I  know  not  why 
it  should  be  a  matter  of  congratulatioh,  that  persons  who  are 
already  richer  than  any  one  need  to  be,  should  have  doubled 
their  means  of  consuming  things  which  give  little  or  no  pleas- 
ure, except  as  representatives  of  wealth  ;  or  that  numbers  of 
individuals  should  pass  over  every  year  from  the  middle  class 
into  a  richer  class,  or  from  the  class  of  the  occupied  rich  into 
that  of  the  unoccupied."  * 

It  is  indeed  a  sad  spectacle,  that  of  so  vast  a  propor- 
tion of  the  national  energy  still  devoted  to  mere  material 
acquisition,  still  laboring  in  a  field  in  which  such  ample 
harvests  have  been  already  gained,  still  pushing  on  in  a 
direction  where  there  is  little  left  to  win,  —  while  so 
many  social  problems  remain  still  unsolved,  so  many 
grievous  wounds  still  unhealed,  so  many  noble  paths  still 
unfrequented  or  unexplored.  We  still  press  madly  for- 
ward in  the  race,  though  the  goal  can  present  us  with  no 
new  attractions  ;  we  still  struggle  "  to  get  on,"  though 
we  have  got  far  enough  to  command  all  the  substantial 
acquisitions  and  enjoyments  of  a  worthy  life  ;  we  still 
persist  in  striving  and  toiling  for  added  wealth,  which 

*  MUl's  Pol.  Econ.,  II.  318  (3d  ed.). 


68  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

can  purchase  for  us  no  added  happiness  ;  and  in  the  hot 
competition  we  push  aside  or  trample  down  many  who 
really  need  what  we  only  desire.  New  roads,  vaster  ships, 
more  rapid  and  cheaper  locomotion,  spdedier  transmis- 
sion of  intelligence,  greater  physical  comforts, — all  these 
are  valuable  things,  and  objects  of  legitimate  exertion. 
But  of  these  we  have  now  almost  enough  ;  we  have 
pushed  on  long  enough  and  far  enough  in  this  exclusive 
line ;  there  are  other  fields  to  be  tilled,  other  harvests  to 
be  reaped,  other  aims  to  be  achieved.  Thousands  and 
thousands  of  course  must,  till  some  blessed  change 
comes  over  our  social  state,  spend  life  in  striving  for  a 
living,  and  thousands  more  must  concentrate  all  their 
exertions  on  the  acquirement  of  a  competence ;  but  why 
should  this  comj)etence  be  made,  by  our  increasing  lux- 
uriousness,  an  ever- vanishing  point  ?  And  why  should 
those  on  whom  no  such  hard  necessity  is  laid,  imitate 
their  needier  brethren  ?  "Why  should  not  those  who 
have  a  fortune  sufficient  to  supply  all  reasonable  wants, 
and  to  guarantee  them  against  anxious  cares,  pause  awhile 
upon  the  dusty  and  weary  thoroughfare,  and  try  to  form 
a  juster  estimate  of  the  purpose  of  life,  and  the  relative 
value  of  its  aims  and  prizes  ?  Why  should  we  so  cling 
to  the  undoubted  but  fragmentary  truth  that  enjoyment 
lies  only  in  the  race,  in  the  contest,  in  the  effort  ?  The 
successful  barrister  at  the  summit  of  his  profession  and 
the  height  of  fame  is  so  overwhelmed  with  business  that 
he  has  time  neither  for  sleep,  nor  society,  nor  recreation, 
nor  literature ;  his  strength  is  overtasked,  his  life  is  slip- 
ping away,  he  has  not  even  leisure  for  the  sweet  ameni- 
ties of  the  domestic  circle ;  he  is  amassing  thousands 
which  he  does  not  want  and  cannot  spend ;  he  is  en- 
grossing briefs  which  poorer  men  thirst  for  in  vain ;  yet 
when  does  he  ever  resign  a  portion  of  his  business  to 
hungiy  competitors  ?  when  does  he  ever  resolve  \ipon 
"  shorter  hours,"  ■ —  less  toil  combined  with  less  emolu- 
ment ?  When  does  he  ever  say  to  himself,  "  I  will  no 
longer  spend  my  labor  for  that  which  is  not  bread,  and 
for  the  food  which  satisfieth  notj  I  will  pause,  I  will 


BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS.  69 

rest,  I  will  enjoy,  I  will  contemplate,  I  will  consecrate 
my  remaining  years  to  my  family,  to  my  country,  to  my 
soul "  ?  The  physician,  in  the  same  way,  who  has  worked 
his  way  up  to  the  first  practice  and  reputation,  and  is 
earning  wealth  far  beyond  his  needs,  and  has  no  rest 
night  nor  day,  —  who  can  never  take  up  a  book,  and  sel- 
dom finish  a  dinner,  and  scarcely  ever  go  into  society, 
and  only  at  rare  intervals  run  for  a  hasty  holiday  into 
the  country,  —  how  rarely  does  he  retire  and  leave  the 
field  to  rising  rivals,  till  his  infirmities  compel  him  !  In 
these  and  similar  cases,  indeed,  it  often  happens  that  it 
is  not  the  desire  of  acquisition,  nor  yet  the  love  of  their 
profession,  which  retains  these  men  in  their  unresting 
harness,  but  the  conviction  that  they  could  enjoy  no  other 
life  ;  they  remain  "  slaves  of  the  oar  "  because  they  could 
not  be  happy  in  their  freedom.  They  have  lived  so  long 
and  so  exclusively  in  their  work,  that  they  have  lost  all 
relish  for  the  simpler  and  quieter  enjoyments  of  exist- 
ence ;  literature  and  science  have  no  longer  any  charms 
for  them ;  political  and  public  objects,  ignored  or  forgot- 
ten for  long  years,  cannot  now  excite  their  interest,  and 
their  sympathies  with  social  life  have  become  extinct  or 
feeble.  What  greater  condemnation  can  be  passed  upon 
the  narrow  groove  in  which  their  life  has  run,  —  upon 
the  partial  and  fragmentary  cultivation  of  their  being 
which  has  brought  them  to  this  pass,  —  upon  the  social 
system  which  so  favors  this  one-sided,  machine-like,  in- 
complete, undignified  existence  !  It  is  true  that  as  mat- 
ters are  now  arranged  in  England,  and  in  the  state  of 
fierce  competition  in  which  we  live,  and  move,  and  have 
our  being,  this  devotion  of  the  whole  man  to  his  work 
seems  indispensable  to  success,  —  it  is  one  of  our  most 
grievous  social  evils  that  it  should  be  so  ;  but  it  is  owing 
very  much  to  the  very  instinctive  and  pertinacious  strife 
"  to  get  on  "  which  we  complain  of,  —  a  strife  not  indeed 
objectless,  but  continued  long  after  the  original  object 
has  been  obtained.  For  if  our  mode  of  life  were  simpler, 
if  our  standard  of  the  needed  or  the  fitting  were  more 
rational  and  less  luxurious,  if  our  notion  of  a  "  compe- 


70  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDCxMENTS. 

tence  "  were  more  real  and  less  conventional,  and  if  we 
were  more  disposed  to  stay  our  hand  when  that  compe- 
tence was  gained,  —  this  competition  would  become  far 
less  severe  and  oppressive ;  men  might  possibly  have  to 
work  nearly  as  hard  in  their  several  callings,  Ijut  tliey 
would  worh  for  fewer  years,  and  the  earlier  retirement  of 
the  successful  would  make  more  frequent  openings  for 
the  needy  and  the  striving  ;  the  barrister  and  physician 
would  be  satisfied  with  making  their  £5,000  or  £10,000 
a  year  for  fifteen  years  instead  of  for  twenty-five ;  and 
they  would  h  ve  the  double  gain  of  creating  a  vacancy 
for  others,  and  of  retiring  themselves  before  life  had  be- 
come wholly  dry,  dull,  disenchanted,  and  unenjoyable. 

The  thing  wanted  is  the  general  adoption  of  a  juster 
and  worthier  estimate  of  the  true  meaning,  pleasures,  and 
purposes  of  life,  —  a  perception  that  existence  was  given 
us  for  noble  aims,  not  for  solid  acquisitions,  —  that  when 
a  sufficiency  is  once  attained,  the  pursuit  of  wealth  brings 
many  cares,  sacrifices,  and  privations,  and  its  acquisition 
can  purchase  only  fresh  luxuries  which  bring  no  fresh 
enjoyment.  If  this  idea  could  but  gain  entrance  into  the 
upper  circles  of  society;  if  the  rich  and  great,  —  those 
whose  well-established  and  recognized  position  gives  them 
absolute  freedom,  if  they  choose  to  take  it,  —  instead  of 
living  in  a  style  of  inordinate  luxury  which  others  are 
always  endeavoring  to  ape  or  emulate,  were  to  set  an 
example  of  simplicity  and  moderation,  to  exchange  gor- 
geousness  for  taste,  to  prefer  the  arts  which  adorn  life  for 
those  which  merely  minister  to  its  voluptuous  smoothness, 
to  desert  a  career  of  hollow  splendor  and  joyless  show  for 
one  of  true  and  beneficent  social  influence ;  if  those  who 
can  and  do  give  the  tone  and  decide  the  direction  of  the 
national  mind  would,  out  of  true  wisdom  and  real  prefer- 
ence, tacitly  impose  upon  themselves  some  "  sumptuary 
laws,"  and  adopt  a  style  of  living  which  should  make 
display  ■soilgar,  and  opulence  therefore  comparatively 
useless,  —  it  is  not  easy  to  conjecture  how  rapidly  the 
contagion  of  the  sound  example  would  spread  downwards, 
how  vast  a  proportion  of  the  supposed  necessities  of  gen- 


BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS.  71 

teel  life  would  be  instantaneously  swept  away,  and  how 
sudden  a  chill  would  come  over  the  present  universal 
and  feverish  passion  for  unnecessary  wealth.  Sound 
political  economy  would  frown  upon  no  such  triumph  of 
rationality ;  those  who  resolve  to  live  sensibly  need  not 
fear  that  they  will  thereby  infringe  any  scientific  princi- 
ples or  natural  laws.  We  preach  no  restriction  of  civil- 
ized man  to  the  simple  requirements  of  the  savage ;  we 
wage  no  war  against  acquired  tastes  or  artificial  wants ; 
we  do  not  seek  to  discourage  those  who  can,  from  indul- 
ging in  the  elegances  or  cultivating  the  refinements 
which  soften  and  embellish  life ;  we  only  desire  to  limit 
luxurious  expenditure  to  that  which  confers  real  and  not 
unworthy  enjoyment,  and  to  terminate  the  pursuit  of 
wealth  when  all  the  means  of  true  happiness  which  wealth 
can  purchase  are  already  in  our  reach.  We  would  at 
least  have  every  man  be  content  with  the  full  goblet, 
without  seeking  to  dissolve  within  it  the  needless  and 
untasted  pearl.  We  wish  to  see  the  middle  and  upper 
life  of  England  less  a  scene  of  bustle,  of  effort,  and  of 
struggle,  and  more  one  of  placid  content  and  intellectual 
serenity  ;  less  of  a  mad  gallop,  and  more  of  a  quiet  prog- 
ress; less  of  a  dusty  race-course,  and  more  of  a  cultivated 
garden ;  less  of  a  career  which  disgusts  us  in  our  hours 
of  weariness  and  sickens  us  in  our  moments  of  reflection, 
and  more  of  one  which  we  can  enjoy  while  we  tread  it, 
and  look  back  upon  without  shame  and  regret  when  it  is 
closed. 

Need  we  fear  that  the  world«would  stagnate  under  such 
a  change  ?  Need  we  guard  ourselves  against  the  miscon- 
struction of  being  held  to  recommend  a  life  of  complacent 
and  inglorious  inaction  ?  We  think  not.  We  would 
only  substitute  a  nobler  for  a  meaner  strife,  —  a  rational 
for  an  excessive  toil,  —  an  enjoyment  that  springs  from 
serenity,  for  one  that  springs  from  excitement  only ;  we 
would  enable  our  countrymen  to  find  happiness  in  con- 
templation as  well  as  in  action.  To  each  time  its  own 
preacher,  to  each  excess  its  own  counteraction.  In  an 
age  of  dissipation^,  liinguor,  and  stagnation,  we  should  join 


72  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

with  Mr.  Carlyle  in  preaching  the  "  Evangel  of  Work," 
and  say  with  him,  "  Blessed  is  the  man  who  has  found 
his  work ;  let  him  ask  no  other  blessedness."  *  In  an 
age  of  strenuous,  fren;^ied,  feverish,  excessive,  and  often 
utterly  irrational  and  objectless  exertion,  we  join  ]\Ir. 
INIill  in  preaching  the  milder  and  more  needed  "  Evangel 
of  Leisure." 

"  The  worth  of  work  does  not  surely  consist  in  its  leading 
to  other  work,  and  so  on  to  work  upon  work  without  end.  On 
the  contrary,  the  multiplication  of  work,  for  purposes  not  worth 
caring  about,  is  one  of  the  evils  of  our  present  condition.  When 
justice  and  reason  shall  be  the  rule  of  human  affairs,  one  of 
the  first  things  to  which  we  may  expect  them  to  be  applied 
is  the  question,  How  many  of  the  so-called  luxuries,  conven- 
iences, refinements,  and  ornaments  of  life  are  ivorth  the  labor 
which  must  be  undergone  as  the  condition  of  producing  them  % 
The  beautifying  of  existence  is  as  worthy  and  useful  an  object 
as  the  sustaining  of  it,  but  only  a  vitiated  taste  can  see  any 
such  result  in  those  fopperies  of  so-called  civilization,  which 
myriads  of  hands  are  now  occupied  and  lives  wasted  in  provid- 
ing. In  opposition  to  the  '  Gospel  of  Work,'  I  would  assert 
the  Gospel  of  Leisure,  and  maintain  that  human  beings  cannot 
rise  to  the  finer  attributes  of  their  nature  compatibly  with  a 
life  filled  with  labor To  reduce  ver}^  greatly  the  quan- 
tity of  work  required  to  caiTy  on  existence,  is  as  needful  as  to 
distribute  it  more  equalh' ;  and  the  progress  of  science,  and 
the  increasing  ascendency  of  justice  and  good  sense,  tend  to 
this  result."  f 

The  second  point  in  which  it  appears  to  us  that  Conti- 
nental life  has  greatly  the  advantage  over  our  own,  is  in 
the  aspect  which  poverty  assumes.  Earely  in  France  or 
in  Germany  does  it  sink  so  low  as  with  us.  Far  more 
seldom  does  it  reach  the  form  of  destitution.     Scarcely 

*  "  Who  art  thou  that  complainest  of  thj'  life  of  toil  ?  Complain  not. 
Look  up,  my  wearied  brother ;  see  thy  fellow-workmen  there  in  God's 
eternitj',  surviving  there,  they  alone  surviving,  sacred  band  of  the  im- 
mortals, celestial  body-guard  of  the  Empire  of  mankind.  Ever  in  the 
weak  human  memory,  they  survive  so  long  as  saints,  as  heroes,  as  gods, 
they  alone  surviving  ;  peojjling,  they  alone,  the  unmeasured  solitudes 
of  time."  —  Past  and  Present. 

t  Eraser's  Magazine. 


•BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS.  73 

ever  does  it  descend  to  such  squalor  as  in  our  great  cities. 
Many  causes  combine  to  produce  this  enviable  difference  ; 
sometimes  it  is  purchased  at  a  price  which  we  are  not 
prepared  to  pay ;  but  of  the  fact  of  the  difference  there 
can,  we  believe,  be  no  question.  We  all  know  how  inces- 
santly of  late  years  our  sympathies  have  been  aroused, 
and  our  feelings  shocked  and  pained,  by  pictures  of  the 
awful  depths  to  which  misery  descends  in  the  courts  and 
alleys  of  our  great  metropolis,  as  well  as  of 'Edinburgh 
and  Glasgow ;  of  human  beings  living  by  hundreds  in 
dens  filthier  than  sties,  and  more  pestilential  than  plague 
liospitals  ;  of  men,  women,  and  children  huddled  together 
in  dirt,  disorder,  and  promiscuity  like  that  of  the  lower 
animals  ;  of  girls  delicately  bred,  toiling  day  and  night 
for  wages  utterly  inadequate  to  tlie  barest  maintenance ; 
of  deaths  from  long  insufficiency  of  food  ;  of  deaths  from 
absolute  starvation.  We  are  not  prepared  to  indorse  the 
heart-rending  and  sickening  delineations  of  Mayhew, 
Kingsley,  and  Dickens,*  in  all  their  details,  but  neither 
are  we  able  to  withhold  our  assent  to  their  rou^h  and 
general  fidelity.  They  are  too  far  confirmed  by  the  cold 
official  statements  of  blue  books  for  that.  Poverty,  tlien, 
in  Great  Britain  assumes  many  and  frequent  forms  of  ag- 
gravated wretchedness  and  squalor,  which  change  its 
character  from  a  condition  of  privation  to  one  of  positive 
infliction,  which  make  life  a  burden,  a  malady,  and  a 
curse.  In  France  and  Germany,  we  believe  we  are  war- 
ranted in  stating,  these  abysses  of  misery  are  scarcely 
found,  —  or  only  as  anomalous  and  most  astounding  ex- 
ceptions. We  never  hear  of  them  in  Vienna.  We  be- 
lieve they  could  not  exist  there.  There  is  nothing  like 
them  in  Munich,  Dresden,  or  Berlin.  Sir  Francis  Head 
and  Lord  Ashley  put  themselves  in  the  liands  of  an  ex- 
perienced resident  in  Paris,  with  a  request  that  they 
might  be  taken  to  the  very  worst  haunts  and  dwellings 
of  the  lowest  portion  of  the  population,  and  this  is  the 
testimony  Sir  F.  Head  gives  :  — 

*  liOndoii  Poor,  Alton  Locke,  and  Bleak  House,  Tom-all-alone's. 
4 


LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 


"  I  must  own  it  was  my  impression,  find  T  believe  it  was 
that  of  Lord  Ashley,  that  the  poverty  we  had  come  to  witness 
bore  no  eoniparison  whatever  to  that  reckle.ssness  of  personal 
appearance,  that  abject  wretchedness,  that  squalid  misery, 
whicli  —  dressed  in  the  cast-oft'  tattered  garments  of  our 
wealthy  classes,  and  in  clothes  perforated  with  holes  not  to 
be  seen  amiong  the  most  savage  tribes  —  Ireland  annually 
l)ours  out  upon  England,  and  which,  in  the  crowded  courts 
and  allej's  of  London  I  have  so  often  visited,  produce  among 
our  own  people,  as  it  were,  by  infection  which  no  moral  rem- 
edy has  yet  been  able  to  cure,  scenes  not  only  revolting  as 
well  as  discreditable  to  human  nature,  but  which  are  to  be 
witnessed  in  no  other  portion,  civilized  or  uncivilized,  of  the 

globe In  another  locality.  La  Petite  Pologne,  we  found 

the  general  condition  of  the  poorer  classes  in  no  way  Avorse 
than  those  we  had  just  left.  On  entering  a  large  house,  four 
stories  high,  running  round  a  small  square  hollow  cojirt,  we 
ascertained  that  it  contained  rather  more  than  five  hundred 
lodgers,  usually  gi'ouped  together  in  families  or  little  commu- 
nities. In  this  barrack  or  warren,  the  rooms,  paved  with 
bricks,  were  about  fifteen  feet  long,  ten  feet  broad,  and  eight 
feet  high.  We  found  them,  generally  speaking,  clean  and 
W'ell  ventilated,  but  the  charge  for  each  chamber  unfurnished 

was  six  francs  a  month In  the  most  miserable  district 

in  the  west  end  of  Paris,  we  also  failed  to  meet  with  auA'thing 
that  could  be  said  to  add  opprobrium  to  poverty.  The  inhab- 
itants of  the  few  houses  we  entered  were,  no  doubt,  existing 
upon  but  very  scanty  subsistence,  but  in  every  case  they  ap- 
peared anxious  to  preserve  polite  manners  and  to  be  clean  in 
their  dress.  In  the  Rue  de  la  Eoche,  No.  2,  we  entered  a 
lodging-house,  kept  by  a  clean,  pleasing-mannered  woman, 
and  as  all  her  lodgers  were  out  at  work,  we  walked  over  her 
establishment.  The  rooms,  which  were  about  eight  feet  seven 
inches  in  height,  contained,  nearly  touching  each  other,  from 
thi'ee  to  five  double  beds ;  for  each  of  which  she  charged  ten 
sous  a  night,  or  2id.  for  each  sleeper  (in  London  the  charge 
is  usually  4d.).  Each  room  had  one  window,  and  we  found 
every  one  wide  open."  —  Head's  Fagots  of  French  Sticks,  I. 
114-118. 

Now,  when  we  remember  that  England  is  beyond  com- 
parison richer  than  these  Continental  states,  and  that  the 


BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS.  75 

earnings  of  our  laboring  classes  are  far  higher  than  those 
of  the  same  classes  in  either  France  or  Germany,  —  higher 
even  in  reference  to  the  price  of  the  necessaries  of  life ; 
and  that  we  are  accustomed  to  regard  ourselves  as  stand- 
ing at  the  head  of  European  civilization,  and  as  having 
pursued  a  more  enlightened  social  policy  than  other  na- 
tions ;  there  is  much  in  the  contrast  we  have  noticed  that 
sliould  startle  us  into  inquiry  and  reflection.  What  are 
the  causes  of  a  phenomenon  so  painful  and  discreditable 
to  us  ?  As  a  general  rule  the  lal)oring  poor  abroad  are 
more  respectable  in  their  character  and  mode  of  life  than 
their  analoga  in  England,  —  not  certainly  cleverer,  not 
better  workmen,  not  made  of  more  sterling  stuff,  than 
most  of  the  same  class  with  us,  but  still  leading  generally 
a  more  decent,  worthy,  satisfactory,  social  existence  ;  their 
peasants  are  more  contented,  better-mannered,  less  boorish, 
and  (when  unexcited)  less  brutal,  and  more  comfortable, 
though  often  with  fewer  of  the  raw  materials  of  comfort ; 
their  artisans  are  steadier,  soberer,  more  cheerful,  more 
saving,  and  more  sensible  than  ours ;  and  even  their  very 
poor,  destitute,  and  forlorn  are  less  wretched,  less  squalid, 
less  absolutely  abandoned  and  despairing  than  ours.* 
Why  is  this  ?  And  when  we  thus  come  to  compare  the 
results  of  our  opposite  notions  and  proceedings  in  matters 

*  Even  classes  like  the   "  distressed  needlewomen  "  seem  far  less  mis- 
erable in   Paris    than   in  London.     Compare  the    following  -from    Un  • 
Pliilosophe  sous   les  Toits,   with    the  harrowing  pictures  given  us  in 
Margaret,  Alton  Locke,  and  Realities  :  — 

"Jeme  suis  trouve  dans  un  wagon  pres  de  deux  scenrs  deja  snr  le 
retour,  ai)partenant  a  la  classe  des  Parisiens  casaniers  et  ])aisibles  dont 
j'ai  parle  plus  haut.  Quelipies  complaisances  dc  hon  voisinage  ont  suffi 
pour  m'altirer  leur  contiance  ;  au  bout  de  quelques  minutes  je  savais 
toute  leur  histoire. 

"  Ce  sont  dau.x;  pauvres  filles  restees  orphelines  a  quinze  ans,  et  qui, 
depuis,  ont  vecu  comuie  vivent  les  femnies  qui  travaillent,  d'economie  et 
de  privation.  Fabriquant  depuis  vingt  ou  trente  ans  des  agraffes  pour 
la  menu  maison,  elles  ont  vu  dix  maitres  s'y  succeder  et  s'enricher,  sans 
que  rien  ait  change  dans  leur  sort.  Elles  habitent  toujours  la  meme 
chambre,  au  fond  d'une  de  ces  impasses  de  la  rue  St.  Denis  ou  I'air  et  le 
soleil  sont  inconnus.  Elles  se  mettent  au  travail  avant  le  jour,  le  pro- 
longent  apres  la  nuit,  et  voient  les  annees  se  joindre  aux  annees  sans  que 
leur  vie  ait  ete  marquee  par  aucim  autre  eveuemeut  que  rofhce  du  di- 
manche,  une  promenade,  ou  une  maladie." 


76  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

of  social  policy,  is  there  not  reason  to  suspect  that,  even 
if  the  ultimate  and  average  verdict  be  given  in  our  favor, 
we  may  not  be  so  wholly  riglit  nor  our  neiglibors  so  u-holly 
■wrong  as  it  has  hitherto  pleased  us  to  imagine  ?  There 
must  surely  be  something  good  and  imital)le  in  a  system 
nndcr  which,  while  ^wirr^^  is  more  general,  misery  is  less 
frequent  and  less  extreme  than  in  our  free,  prosperous, 
and  energetic  land. 

One  of  the  causes  which  contribute  to  this  superiority, 
in  Germany  at  least,  we  have  already  incidentally  no- 
ticed, and  we  shall  pass  it  over  the  more  briefly  as  it 
is  of  a  nature  which  we  could  not  imitate  or  approach. 
We  allude  to  the  care  taken  by  the  govennnents  of  Cen- 
tral Europe  that  there  should  be  a  calling,  an  opening,  a 
mode  of  livelihood  for  every  one  of  their  citizens  as  he 
reaches  manhood,  —  a  place  at  life's  banquet,  in  short,  to 
use  Malthus's  illustration.  They  take  vigilant  cognizance 
of  each  man's  means  of  support,  and  do  not  allow  him  to 
marry  till  these  means  are  reasonably  adequate.  In 
Norway,  no  one  can  marry  without  "showing,  to  the  sat- 
isfaction of  the  clergyman,  that  he  is  permanently  settled 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  offer  a  fair  prospect  that  he  can 
support  a  family."  In  Mecklenburg,  marriages  are  de- 
layed by  the  conscription  in  the  twenty-second  year,  and 
by  military  service  for  six  years  ;  besides  which  the  par- 
ties must  have  a  dwelling,  without  which  the  clerygman 
is  not  allowed  to  marry  them.  In  Saxony,  "  a  man  may 
not  marry  before  lie  is  twenty-one,  if  liable  to  serve  in 
the  army.  In  Dresden,  artisans  may  not  marry  tOl  they 
become  masters  in  their  trade."  In  Wurtemberg  and 
Bavaria  (besides  being  obliged  to  remain  single  till  the 
termination  of  the  period  fixed  for  military  service),  "  no 
man  may  marry  without  permission,  and  that  permis- 
sion is  only  granted  on  proving  that  he  and  his  wife 
have  between  them  sufficient  to  establish  themselves 
and  maintain  a  family :  say  from  800  to  1000  florins  in 
large  towns  ;  400  to  500  in  smaller  ones  ;  and  in  villages 
200  florins,  or  about  £10."  In  Lubeck,  Frankfort,  and 
many  cantons  of  Switzerland,  similar  regulations  are  in 


BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS.  77 

force.*  It  is  difficult  to  say  that  there  is  anything  in  them 
which  is  inconsistent  with  justice  or  a  fitting  amount  of 
social  freedom,  since  the  universal  and  tacit  custom  in  mod- 
ern civilized  states,  of  comyjelling  the  community  to  main- 
tain those  who  cannot  maintain  themselves,  certainly  im- 
plies and  involves  a  correlative  right  on  the  part  of  the 
community  to  watch  that  the  number  of  these  public  bur- 
dens shall  not  be  selfishly  or  wantonly  augmented ;  and 
after  all,  these  regulations  only  impose  by  law  upon  the 
poor  the  restrictions  which  the  middle  and  upper  ranks 
by  habit,  and  voluntarily,  impose  upon  themselves.  But 
these  restrictions  are  too  foreign  to  our  national  notions 
to  be  ado]ited  here  as  externally  imposed  fetters :  all  that 
can  be  hoped  for  is  that  in  time  our  laboring  classes  may 
become  enlightened  enough  to  assume  them  of  their  own 
frfee  will,  as  they  become  conscious  of  tlie  beneficial  effect 
they  could  not  fail  to  produce  on  their  condition,  and 
cognizant  of  the  general  though  moderate  and  monoto- 
nous well-being  which  they  are  instrumental  in  diffus- 
ing among  the  inhabitants  of  Central  Europe. 

A  second  cause,  and  perhaps  the  most  freqyent  and  the 
most  powerful  of  all,  in  producing  the  contrast  we  have 
noticed  in  the  aspect  of  French  and  English  poverty,  is 
the  more  habitual  sobriety  of  the  laboring  class  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Channel.  The  vice  of  intemperance, 
or,  where  it  does  not  reach  that  point,  the  custom  of  in- 
dulgence in  spirituous  liquors,  so  unhappily  prevalent  in 
our  country,  may  not  only  do  much  to  account  for  what- 
ever is  peculiarly  afflicting  and  disreputable  in  the  con- 
dition of  our  poor,  but  is  the  one  main  reason  why,  in 
spite  of  our  general  prosperity,  this  class  has  not  risen  to 
a  height  of  comfort,  ease,  and  opulence  unparalleled  in  the 
old  world.  As  is  well  known,  our  working  classes  yearly 
waste  in  the  purely  mischievous  enjoyment's  of  the  pal- 
ate a  sum  nearly  equal  to  the  whole  Imperial  revenue,i- 

*  See  Sonior  on  Foreign  Poor  Laws.  Answers  obtained  from  our  con- 
suls abroad. 

+  Mr.  Porter  has  shown  that  this  amount  cannot  be  less  than  £54,- 
000,000  jicr  annum. 


78  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

—  a  sum  which,  if  suffered  to  accumulate,  ■would  soon 
reuder  them  ca])italists  ;  if  invested  in  annuities  or  sav- 
ings-hanlcs,  would  secure  them  aj^ainst  the  day  of  I'everse 
or  incapacity;  if  judiciously  expended,  would  raise  them 
at  once  to  a  condition  of  comfort,  respectability,  even  of 
luxury,  and,  if  they  desired  it,  of  comparative  leisure. 
A  cessation  of  this  expenditure  would  he  equivalent  to 
raising  the  earnings  of  every  poor  man's  family  througli- 
out  Great  Britain,  by  £  10  a  year,  or  four  sliillings  a  week. 
But  this  would  be  tlie  smallest  portion  of  the  saving. 
The  whole  habits  and  mode  of  life  of  the  individual 
would  be  regenerated.  The  home  would  become  happy ; 
the  wliole  domestic  circle  would  be  a  scene  of  peace  in- 
stead of  strife.  Tliere  would  be  few  filthy  dwellings,  few 
neglected  children,  few  of  tliose  scandalous  cases  of  M'ives 
half  murdered  by  their  drunken  husbands,  which  now 
disgrace  every  police  court  in  our  cities.  It  is  impossible 
to  over-color  or  exaggerate  the  change  which  that  one 
circumstance  would  make.  All  who  have  had  to  do  with 
tlie  poor  know  how  directly,  how  inevitably,  how  rapidly, 
a  habit  of  drinking,  yielded  to  Ity  the  head  of  the  family, 
changes  poverty  into  destitution,  stinted  means  into 
squalid  wretchedness,  a  home  into  a  den.  The  French 
artisan  comparatively  seldom  gives  way  to  this  dreadful 
vice,  and  seldom,  therefore,  incurs  the  sordid  misery 
wdiicli  is  its  invariable  consequence.  He  is  often,  gener- 
ally, much  poorer  than  Ids  English  brother;  his  fare  is 
scantier ;  his  house  is  smaller ;  his  bed  is  harder  ;  but  he 
rarely  aggravates  these  privations  gratuitously  by  gross 
indulgence ;  seldoraer  still  does  he  cast  these  privations 
on  his  wife  and  children,  while  living  in  wasteful  intem- 
perance himself. 

But  connected  with  this  greater  sobriety,  and  operating 
in  the  same  d-irection,  is  anotlier  cause  of  the  superiorit}'' 
of  the  French  poor  man.  He  is  by  no  means  always 
better  educated,  but  he  has  nearly  always,  whether  from 
nature  or  training,  a  degree  of  taste  and  imagination  of 
M'hich  our  poor  are  sadly  destitute.  These  qualities  give 
him,  in  however  straitened  circumstances  he  may  be,  a 


BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS.  79 

fondness  for  the  embellishments  and  amenities  of  life, 
which  makes  him  strive  against  squalor  to  the  very  last. 
He  refuses  to  accept  an  utterly  unornamented  and  inele- 
gant existence,  and  because  he  is  pinched,  overworked, 
and  even  almost  destitute,  he  does  not  see  why  he  should 
also  become  thoroughly  hopeless,  spiritless,  and  degraded. 
Much  of  tliis  oesthetic  superiority  is  owing,  no  doubt,  to 
original  difference  of  constitution ;  much  of  it  may,  we 
believe,  be  traced  to  peculiarities  of  education.  The 
French  peasant  is  probably  in  general  as  ignorant  as  our 
own ;  but  in  what  education  he  does  receive  there  is 
mingled  less  that  is  merely  rudimentary  and  mechanical, 
and  more  that  is  imaginative  and  refining.  This  is  still 
more  the  case  with  the  German  and  the  Swiss.  They 
have  less  of  the  alphabet  instilled  into  them,  but  more 
of  music,  poetry,  and  the  sentiments  of  poetry.  Alto- 
gether, the  temperament  of  the  laboring  class  on  the 
Continent,  while  sometimes  more  excitable,  and  some- 
times more  homely  and  stupid  than  in  England,  is  nearly 
always  more  poetical.  One  fact  has  always  struck  our 
attention  very  strongly  in  France,  and  still  more  in  Hol- 
land. In  the  worst  dwellings  of  the  poor — we  do  not 
mean  the  haunts  of  the  actually  vicious  and  criminal,  but 
in  the  wretched  attics,  seven  or  eight  stories  high,  quite 
in  the  roof,  and  with  little  light,  which  must  be  fearfully 
close  in  summer  and  painfully  cold  in  Avinter  —  we  al- 
most always  see  the  little  window  not  only  ornamented 
by  a  coarse  muslin  curtain,  but  adorned  with  flower-pots, 
or  boxes  of  cress,  or  mignonette,  or  some  humble  vegeta- 
ble, and  evidently  tended  with  the  utmost  care.  There 
will  never  be  absolute  despairing  squalor,  however  great 
the  poverty,  where  there  is  tliis  love  of  flowers,  this  pas- 
sion for  fragments  of  simple  nature.  Here  is  a  sketch 
of  the  i^roceedings  of  a  poor  old  soldier,  who  inhabited 
the  garret  opposite  that  of  our  philosopher :  — 

"  On  reconnait  le  militaire  a  sa  demarche  cadencee,  a  sa 
moustache  grise,  ct  an  ruban  qui  orno  sa  boutonuiere  ;  on  lo 
diviiierait  a  ses  soins  attentifs  pour  le  petit  jardin  qui  decore  sa 
galerie    aerienne ;    car  il   y  a   deux    choscs   particulierement 


80  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

.limees  de  touslesvieux  soldats,  Ics  flcurs  et  Ics  enfans 

Aussi  le  vent  froid  ii'a  pu  chasser  mon  voisin  de  son  balcon. 
II  laboure  le  terrain  de  scs  caisses  vertes ;  il  y  seme  avec  soin 
les  graines  de  capucine  ecarlate,  de  volubilis,  et.de  pois  de 
scnteur.  Desorniais  il  viendra  tons  les  jours  epier  leur  germi- 
nation, defendre  les  pousses  naissantes  centre  I'herbe  parasite 
ou  Tinsecte,  disposer  les  fils  conducteurs  pour  les  tiges  grim- 
pantes,  leur  distribuer  avec  precaution  I'eau  et  la  chaleur. 

"  Que  de  peines  pour  amener  a  bien  cette  moisson  !  Com- 
bien  de  fois  je  le  verrai  braver  pour  elle,  comme  aujourd'liui, 
le  froid  ou  le  chaud,  la  bise  ou  Ic  soleil !  Mais  aussi,  aux 
jours  les  plus  ardents  de  I'ete,  quand  une  poussiere  enflamrnt'e 
tourbillonnera  dans  nos  rues,  quand  Toeil,  ebloui  par  I'eclat  du 
platre,  ne  saura  oii  se  reposer,  et  que  les  tuiles  6chauffees 
nous  bruleront  de  leurs  rayonnements,  le  vieux  soldat,  assis 
.sous  sa  tonnelle,  n'apercevra  autour  de  lui  que  verdure  ou  que 
fleurs,  et  respirera  la  brise  refraichie  par  un  orabrage  parfume." 

How  rarely  do  we  find  among  our  town  poor  this 
cherishing  of  flowers  and  green  plants  !  and  how  invari- 
ably, when  we  do  find  it,,  is  it  a  sign  of  a  comparatively 
refined  disposition,  and  hopeful  if  not  easy  circumstances  ! 

The  same  difference  of  character  in  the  two  people 
manifests  itself  in  other  ways.  An  English  artisan  will 
spend  any  extra  earnings  in  adding  to  his  comforts  or 
luxuries,  —  a  French  one  in  purchasing  another  ornament. 
The  cottage  of  the  Englishman  will  often  be  better  fur- 
nished and  niore  comfortable ;  but  everything  in  it  will 
he  for  use,  not  show.  The  Frenchman  will  have  fewer 
chairs,  a  less  solid  table,  and  a  poorer  bed ;  but  he  will 
probably  have  a  bit  of  a  mirror,  or  an  ornamental  clock. 
He  will  have  scantier  and  very  inferior  crockery,  but  is 
nearly  certain  to  have  a  fragment  of  Sevres  china  on  his 
chimney-piece  or  chest  of  drawers.  He  will  feed  much 
worse  in  order  that  lie  may  look  somewhat  better.  There 
is  something  of  the  swell,  and  something  also  of  the  de- 
cayed gentleman,  about  him.  He  will  live  in  the  poorest 
garret,  and  on  the  scantiest  crust,  —  food  and  lodgings 
which  the  English  artisan  would  scout,  —  in  order  that 
he  may  drink  his  can  sucrec  and  read  his  journal  at  a 
decent  cafe,  or  take  his  wife  and  children  a  walk  ou  the 


BRITISH  AND  FOREIGN  CHARACTERISTICS.  81 

boule\'ards  or  in  the  Tuileries  gardens  in  respectable 
attire.  The  desires  and  expenditure  of  the  Englishman 
may  be  for  the  more  solid  good,;  but  Ave  doubt  whether 
the  preferences  of  the  Frenchman  are  not  far  tlie  surest 
guaranty  against  sinking  in  the  social  scale.*  The  love 
of  the  latter  for  holidays  and  gala  days  we  hold  also  to 
be  a  wholesome  safeguard,  even  though  sometimes  carried 
a  little  too  far.  These  festivals  are  something  to  look 
forward  to,  something  to  save  for,  something  to  enliven 
and  embellish  an  otherwise  monotonous  existence.  Man's 
nature  requires  these  breaks  and  brighteners  to  keep  up 
its  elastic  spring ;  without  them  he  becomes  dull  and 
spiritless,  or  gross ;  he  cannot  without  injury  to  both  soul 
and  body  live  on  work  and  sleep  alone ;  to  keep  up 
heart,  to  maintain  cheerfulness,  through  the  dull  routine, 
the  daily  repetitions,  the  hot  and  dusty  thoroughfares  of 
this  world's  ordinary  lots,  some  of  these  gay,  stirring,  en- 
livening "  solutions  of  continuity  "  are  imperatively  needed. 
We,  in  this  country,  have  far  too  few  of  them ;  and  it  is 
not  easy  to  say  how  much  of  the  depth  to  which  poverty 
allows  itself  to  sink  is  owing  to  this  paucity. 

"  Lord,  help  us  poor  people  !  —and  fJutt'  s  my  defence,  — 
If  we  've  nothing  to  trust  to  but  wisdom  and  sense  !  " 

The  ready  and  susceptible  imagination  of  the  French- 
man, too,  must  be  of  inestimable  service  in  enabling  him 
to  embellish  and  glorify  his  poverty  in  ways  that  an 
Englishman  would  never  dream  of.  Xot  only  we  believe 
are  our  poor,  as  a  general  rule,  more  discontented  with 
their  lot  in  life  than  the  same  class  among  our  mercurial 
neighbors,  bu,t  even  where  submissive  and  unmurmuring, 
they  are  so  in  a  different  spirit.     The  Englishman  accepts 

*  "Eidin.s;  through  Nonuandy  one  heantiful  Sunday  evening,  I  over- 
heard a  French  peasant  decline  the  convivial  invitation  of  his  compan- 
ion. 'Why,  no,  thank  you,'  said  he,  '  I  must  go  to  the  guiiigiicflc  for 
the  sake  of  my  wife  and  the  young  people,  dear  souls  ! ' 

"  The  next  Sunday  I  was  in  Sussex,  and  as  my  horse  amhled  by  a  cot- 
tage, I  heard  a  sturdy  boor,  who  had  apparently  just  left  it,  grumble 
forth  to  a  big  boy  swinging  on  a  gate  :  'You  sees  to  the  sow,  .Tim,  there  's 
a  good  un  ;  I  be  's  just  a-going  to  the  Blue  Lion,  to  get  rid  of  my  missus 
and  the  brats  —  rot  'em  ! '  "  —  Btdwcr's  Enrjland  and  the  Engli'sJi. 
4*  p 


82  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

his  meagre  fare  and  liumble  position  (Inr/gcdhi,  ■when  tlie 
Frenchman  accepts  them  cheerfully.  The  latter  makes 
the  Lest  of  matters,  and  .puts  a  Lright  face  on  everything 
that  will  hear  it ;  the  former  is  too  apt  to  take  a  diametri- 
cally opposite  course.  How  "  un-English  "  is  the  follow- 
ing narrative.  The  next  neighbor  of  our  Philosopher  in 
the  garret  is  an  old  soldier  named  Chaufour,  miniis  one 
leg  and  one  arm,  and  earning  a  scanty  subsistence  by 
working  at  coarse  paper  articles  from  long  before  sunri.-^c 
till  long  after  nightfall.  He  explains  to  his  companion 
that  he  lost  his  leg  at  Waterloo,  and  his  arm  "  while  work- 
ing in  the  quarries  of  Clamart "  :  — 

"  Apres  la  grande  debacle  de  Waterloo,  j'etaisdemeur^  trois 
niois  aux  ambulances  pour  laisser  a  ma  jambe  de  bois  le  temps 
de  pouRser.  Une  fois  en  mesurc  de  re-emboiter  le  pas,  je  pris 
conpe  du  major  et  je  me  dirigeai  sur  Paris,  oii  j'esp^rais  trouver 
quelque  parent,  quelque  ami ;  mais  rieu ;  tout  ttait  parti,  ou 
sous  terre.  J'avu'ais  ^te  moins  etranger  ^  Vienue,  a  ^ladrid, 
a  Berlin.  Cepeudant,  poiu*  avoir  une  jarabe  de  moins  a  nour- 
rir,  je  n'en  etais  pas  plus  a  men  aise ;  I'app^tit  ^tait  revenu, 
et  les  derniers  sous  s'envolaient. 

"A  la  v6iite,  j'avais  rencontre  men  aucien  chef  d'escadron, 
qui  se  rappclait  que  je  I'avais  tire  de  la  bajrarre  a  Montereau 
en  lui  donuant  mon  cheval,  et  qui  m'avait  propose  cbez  lui 
place  an  feu  et  a  la  chandelle.  Je  savais  qu'il  avait  epouse, 
Tann^e  d'avant,  un  chateau  et  pas  nial  de  fermes  ;  de  sorte  que 
je  pouvais  devenir  a  perpetuite  brosseur  d'uu  millionuaire  ;  ce 
qui  n'etait  pas  sans  douceur.  Restait  a  savoir  si  je  n'avais 
rien  de  mieux  a  faire.     Un  soir  je  me  mis  a  i-eflexion. 

—  '"Yoyous,  Cbaufour,  que  je  me  dis,  il  s'agit  de  se  conduire 
comme  \\n  homme.  La  place  cbez  le  commandant  te  couvi- 
cnt ;  mais  ne  peux-tu  rien  faire  de  mieux?  Tu  as  encore  le 
torse  en  bon  etat  et  les  bras  solides ;  est  ce  que  tu  ne  dois  pas 
toutes  les  forces  a  la  patrie,  comme  disait  I'oncle  de  Yinceunes  ] 
Pourquoi  ne  pas  laisser  quelque  ancien  plus  demoli  que  toi 
prendre  ses  invalides  cbez  le  commandant  ?  AUons,  troupier, 
encore  quelques  charges  a  fond  puisqu'il  te  reste  du  poignet. 
Faut  pas  se  repnser  avant  le  tenqis.' 

"  Sur  quoi  j'allai  rcmercier  le  chef  d'escadron  et  offrir  mes 
sei'vices  a  \n\  ancien  de  la  battei'ie  qui  etait  rentre  a  Clamart 
dans  son  foi/er  res2)ec( if,  et  qui  avait  repris  lo  pince  de  carrier. 


BRITISH  AND   FOREIGN   CHARACTERISTICS.  83 

"  Pendant  les  premiers  mois,  je  fis  le  metier  de  consent, 
c'est-a-dire,  avec  plus  de  mouvements  que  de  besogne  ;  mais 
avec  de  Ja  bonne  volonte  on  vient  a  bout  des  pierres  comma 
de  tout  le  reste  :  sans  devenir,  comme  on  dit,  une  tete  de 
colonne,  je  pris  mou  rang,  en  serrefile  parmi  les  bons  ouvriers, 
et  je  mangeais  mon  pain  de  bon  appetit,  vu  que  je  le  gagnais 
de  bon  coeur.  C'est  que,  meme  sous  le  tuf,  voyez-vons,  j'avais 
garde  ma  gloriole.  L'idee  que  je  travaillais,  pour  ma  part,  a 
changer  les  roches  en  maisons,  me  flattait  interieuremeut.  Je 
me  disais  tout  bas, 

—  "  '  Courage,  Chaufour,  mon  vieux,  tu  aides  it  embellir  ta 
patrie.''     Et  9a-me  soutenait  le  moral. 

"  Malheureusement,  j'avais  parmi  mes  compagnons  des 
citoyens  un  pen  trop  sensible  aux  charmes  du  cognac ;  si  bien 
qu'un  jour,  I'un  d'eux,  qui  voyait  sa  main  gauche  k  droite, 
s'avisa  de  battre  le  briquet  pres  d'une  mine  chargee ;  la  mine 
prit  feu  sans  dire  gare,  et  nous  envoya  une  mitraille  de  cail- 
loux  qui  tua  trois  hommes  et  m'emporta  le  bras  dont  il  ne  me 
reste  plus  que  la  manche." 

—  "Ainsi,  vous  etiez  de  nouveau  sans  etaf?"  dis-je  au 
vieux  soldat. 

—  "  C"est-a-dire  qu'il  fallait  en  changer,"  reprit-il  tranquille- 
ment.  "  Le  difficile  etait  d'en  trouver  un  qui  se  conteutat  de 
cinq  doigts  au  lieu  de  dix  :  je  le  trouvais  pourtant." 

—  "Ou  celal" 

—  "Parmi  les  balayeurs  de  Paris."     {Scavengers.) 
— ''  Quoi !  vous  avez  fait  partie  —  1 " 

— "  ^  De  Pescouade  de  salubrite :  un  peu,  voisin,  et  9a  n'est 
pas  mou  plus  mauvais  temps.  Le  corps  de  balayage  n'est  pas 
si  mal  compose  que  malpropre,  savez-vous  !  II  y  a  la  d'an- 
ciennes  actrices  qui  n'ont  pas  su  faire  d'economics,  des  mai'- 
chands  mines  a  la  bourse ;  nous  avions  meme  un  professeur 
d'humanit^s,  qui,  pour  un  petit  verre,  vous  recitait  du  Latin 
ou  des  tragedies,  a  votre  choix.  Tout  9a  n'eut  pas  pu  con- 
courir  pour  le  prix  Monthyon  ;  mais  la  misere  faisait  pardonner 
les  vices,  et  la  gaiete  consolait  de  la  misere.  J'etais  aussi 
gueux  et  aussi  gai,  tout  en  tachant  de  valoir  lui  peu  mieux. 
Meme  dans  la  fange  du  ruisseau,  j'avais  gai*de  mon  opinion 
que  rien  ne  d^shonore  de  ce  qui  pent  etre  utile  au  pays." 

—  "  Cependant  vous  avez  fini  par  quitter  votre  nouvelle 
profession?"  ai-jo  repris. 

—  "  Pour  cause  de  reform'e,  voisin  :  les  balayeurs  ont  rare- 


84  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS, 

ment  Ic  pied  sec,  ct  rhumidite  a  fini  par  rouvrir  les  blessures 
de  ma  bonne  janibe.  Je  ne  pouvais  i)his  suivre  I'escouade  ;  il 
a  fiilhi  deposer  les  armes.  Voila  deux  mois  que  j'ai  cesse  de 
travailler  a  Vassahiissement  de  Paris. 

"Au  premier  instant,  9a  m'a  etourdi.  De  mes  quatre 
mcmbres,  il  ne  me  restait  plus  que  la  main  droite  ;  encore 
avait  ellc  perdu  sa  force.  Fallait  done  lui  trouver  une  occu- 
pation houvf/eoise.  Apres  avoir  cssay6  nn  peu  de  tous,  je  suis 
tombe  sur  le  cartonnage  ;  et  me  voici  fabricant  d'etuis  pour 
les  pompons  dc  la  garde  nationalc ;  c'est  ime  oeuvre  peu  lu- 
crative, mais  a  la  portee  de  toutcs  les  intelligences.  En  me 
levant  a  quatre  heures  et  en  travaillant  jusqiC  a  huit,  je  gagne 
65  centimes  (about  6|d)  !  Le  logement  et  la  gamelle  en 
prennent  50 ;  reste  ti'ois  sous  pour  les  depenses  de  luxe.  Je 
suis  done  plus  riche  que  la  France,  puisque  j'equilibre  mon 
budget,  et  je  continue  a  la  servir,  puisque^  ^e  lui  economise  ses 
IMmponsT 

Now,  it  is  possible  that  in  reproducing  these  pictures 
of  humble  life  on  the  Continent,  we  may  have  selected 
exceptions  rather  than  examples  ;  it  may  be  that  in  con- 
trasting the  quiet  and  even  tenor  of  middle-class  life  in 
Germany  and  France  with  the  turmoil,  crush,  and  hurry 
of  existence  in  England  and  America,  we  have  drawn 
both  in  s6mewliat  too  vivid  colors,  and  with  too  sharp  an 
outline ;  still  we  cannot  doubt  the  general  correctness 
of  the  impression  we  liave  received  and  endeavored  to 
convey ;  after  every  discount  and  deduction  has  been 
made  the  broad  fact  will  still  remain,  —  that  if  our  ana- 
logues abroad  are  often  too  torpid,  passive,  and  unenter- 
prising, we,  on  the  contrary,  are  too  restless,  striving,  and 
insatiable ;  that  our  extreme  is  assuredly  not  the  hap- 
piest, nor  possibly  the  noblest ;  and  that,  at  all  events, 
without  exchanging  it  for  theirs,  we  might  do  well  to 
abandon  it  for  some  ^z^s^c  milieu,  in  which  our  course  of 
life  might  become  "  a  sanity  and  not  a  madness." 


FALSE  MORALITY  OF  LADY  NOVELISTS. 

IT  is  not  easy  to  overestimate  the  importance  of 
novels,  wliether  we  regard  the  influence  they  exercise 
upon  an  age,  or  the  indications  they  afford  of  its  char- 
acteristic tendencies  and  features.  They  come,  indeed, 
under  the  denomination  of  "  light  literature  ";  but  this  lit- 
erature is  effective  by  reason  of  its  very  lightness :  it 
spreads,  penetrates,  and  permeates,  where  weightier  mat- 
ter would  lie  merely  on  the  outside  of  the  mind  —  riidis 
indigestaque  moles.  We  are  by  no  means  sure  that,  with 
reference  to  the  sphere  and  nature  of  the  impressions 
they  produce,  prose  works  of  fiction  do  not  constitute 
precisely  that  branch  of  the  intellectual  activity  of  a 
nation  which  a  far-seeing  moralist  would  watch  with  the 
most  vigilant  concern,  and  supervise  with  the  most  anx- 
ious and  unceasing  care.  The  highest  productions  of 
genius,  it  is  true,  —  great  national  epics  or  lyrics,  works 
of  pure  reason  that  revolutionize  a  philosophy  or  found  a 
school,  histories  that  become  classical  and  permanent,  — 
the  writings  of  the  Shakespeares,  Bacons,  Descartes,  Les- 
sings,  Dantes,  Voltaires,  and  Goethes  of  all  lands,  —  have 
unquestionably  a  wider  and  a  grander  range  of  operation, 
and  leave  more  profound  and  enduring  traces  of  their  in- 
fluence :  but  their  effects  are  less  immediate  and  less  di- 

*  Mildred  Vernon  :  a  Tale  of  Parisian  Life  in  the  last  Days  of  the 
Monarchy.     Colburn,  1843. 

Leonie  Vermont :  a  Scene  of  our  Time.     Bentley,  1849. 

Katliie  Brande.     By  Holme  Lee.     Smith  and  Elder,  1850. 

Ruth :  a  Novel.  By  the  author  of  Mary  Barton.  Chapman  and 
Hall,  1853. 

Framleigh  Hall.     Hurst  and  Blackett,  1858. 


83  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

rect ;  they  work  deeper,  but  they  work  slower ;  tliey 
work  upon  the  few  first,  and  afterwards  throiigli  these 
upon  the  many  ;  tliey  affect  the  present  age  prolmbly 
much  less,  but  future  ages  infinitely  more. 

There  are  maiiy  reasons  why  we  should  look  upon 
novels  in  this  serious  point  of  view.  They  are  the  sole 
or  the  chief  reading  of  numbers,  and  these  numbers  are 
mainly  to  be  foinid  among  the  rich  and  idle,  whose 
wealth,  leisure,  and  social  position  combine  to  give  to 
their  tastes  and  example  an  influence  wholly  out  of  pro- 
portion either  to  their  mental  activity  or  to  their  mental 
powers.  They  are  th6  reading  of  most  men  in  their  idler 
and  more  impressionable  hours,  when  the  fatigued  mind 
requires  rest  and  recreation  ;  when  the  brain,  therefore, 
is  comparatively  passive  ;  and  when,  the  critical  and  com- 
bative faculties  being  laid  to  sleep,  the  pabulum  offered 
is  imbibed  without  being  judged  or  sifted.  They  form, 
too,  an  unfortunately  large  proportion  of  the  habitual 
reading  of  the  young  at  the  exact  crisis  of  life  when 
the  spirit  is  at  once  most  susceptible  and  most  tena- 
cious, — 

"  "Wax  to  receive,  and  marble  to  retain"  ; 

when  the  memory  is  fresh,  and  has  a  greedy  and  by  no 
means  discriminating  appetite  ;  when  the  moral  standard 
is  for  the  most  part  fluctuating  or  imformed ;  when  ex- 
perience affords  no  criterion  whereb3'to  separate  the  true 
from  the  false  in  the  delineations  of  life,  and  the  degree 
of  culture  is  as  yet  insufficient  to  distinguish  the  pure 
from  the  meretricious,  the  sound  from  the  unsound,  in 
taste  ;  and  when  whatever  keenly  interests  and  deeply 
moves  is  accepted  and  laid  to  heart,  without  much  ques- 
tioning whether  the  emotion  is  genuine  and  virtuous,  or 
whether  the  interest  is  not  aroused  by  unsafe  and  un- 
warrantable means.  Finally,  novels  constitute  a  princi- 
pal part  of  the  reading  of  women,  who  are  always  im- 
pressionable, in  whom  at  all  times  the  emotional  element 
is  more  awake  and  more  powerful  than  the  critical, 
whose  feelings  are  more  easily  aroused  and  whose  esti- 
mates are  more  easily  influenced  than  ours,  while  at  the 


FALSE   MORALITY  OF   LADY  NOVELISTS.  87 

same  time  the  correctness  of  their  feelings  and  the  jus- 
tice of  their  estimates  are  matters  of  the  most  special 
and  pre-eminent  concern. 

There  are  peculiarities,  again,  in  works  of  fiction, 
which  must  always  secure  them  a  vast  influence  on  all 
classes  of  societies  and  all  sorts  of  minds.  They  are  read 
without  effort,  and  remembered  without  trouble.  We 
have  to  chain  down  our  attention  to  read  other  books 
witli  profit ;  these  enchain  our  attention  of  themselves. 
Other  books  often  leave  no  impression  on  the  mind  at 
all ;  these,  for  good  or  evil,  for  a  while  or  for  long,  always 
produce  some  impression.  Other  books  are  efi'ective  only 
when  digested  and  assimilated ;  novels  usually  need  no 
digestion,  or  rather  present  their  matter  to  us  in  an  al- 
ready digested  form.  Histories,  philosophies,  political 
treatises,  to  a  certain  extent  even  first-class  poetry,  are 
solid  and  often  tough  food,  which  requires  laborious  and 
slow  mastication.  Novels  are  like  soup  or  jelly ;  they 
may  be  drunk  off  at  a  draught  or  swallowed  whole,  cer- 
tain of  being  easily  and  rapidly  absorbed  into  the 
system. 

A  branch  of  literature  wliicli  exercises  an  influence  so 
considerable  on  men  of  leisure  at  all  times,  on  men  of 
business  in  their  hours  of  relaxation,  on  the  young  of 
both  sexes,  and  on  the  female  sex  at  every  age,  assuredly 
demands  the  most  thorough  study  and  the  closest  censor- 
ship on  the  part  of  those  who  wish  to  comprehend,  or 
who  aspire  to  modify,  the  causes  which  mould  humanity. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  a  far  larger  number  of  per- 
sons receive  the  bias  of  their  course  and  the  complexion 
of  their  character  from  reading  novels  than  from  hearinij 
sermons.  We  do  not,  indeed,  hear  of  sudden  conversions 
and  entire  and  enduring  changes  of  life  and  temper  con- 
sequent on  the  perusal  of  romances,  such  as  are  occasion- 
ally said  to  follow  the  stirring  eloquence  of  some  great 
divine ;  though  we  believe  that  more  analogous  cases 
miglit  be  found  than  is  usually  supposed,  were  there  any 
missionary  enthusiasts  to  chronicle  them,  and  were  the 
recipients  of  the  new  spirit  skilful  and  careful  to  trace 


88  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 


back  the  liealing  influence  to  its  source.  But  we  are 
convinced  that  tlie  instances  are  numerous  beyond  con- 
ception in  which  souls  trembling  and  hesitating  on  the 
verge  of  good  and  evil  have  been  determined  towards  the 
former  by  some  scene  of  fiction  falling  in  their  way  at 
the  critical  moment  of  their  moral  history ;  in  which 
minds  have  been  sustained  in  hours  of  weakness  and 
strengthened  in  hours  of  temptation  by  lifelike  pictures 
of  sorrows  endured  and  trials  surmounted  in  virtue  of 
some  great  principle  or.  some  true  sentiment ;  and  in 
which  sinners,  fallen  indeed,  but  not  lost,  have  been  in- 
duced to  pause,  to  recoil,  and  to  recover,  by  seeing  in 
some  work  which  they  had  opened  only  for  amusement 
the  hideousness  of  a  crime  whose  revolting  features  they 
could  not  recognize  except  when  reflected  in  a  mirror. 
Xumbers  ha^'e  first,  not  learned  perhaps,  but  been  actually 
brought  to. perceive  and  realize  with  practical  result 
the  attractions  of  "whatsoever  things  are  pure,  holy, 
lovely,  and  of  good  report,"  by  seeing  their  vivid  delinea- 
tions in  the  pages  of  "  an  owre  true  tale."  Numbers  who 
might  no  doubt  have  acquired  their  estimates  of  the  rela- 
tive gravity  or  excellence  of  favorite  faults  or  difficult 
virtues  from  authorized  Bibles  or  accredited  moralists, 
have  in  reality  learned  them  —  often,  alas,  blended  with 
a  fearful  degree  of  error — from  fictitious  histories;  and 
seek  their  personal  code  of  laws  in  Scott,  or  Bulwer,  or 
Victor  Hugo,  or  George  Sand,  or  the  Countess  Halm- 
Hahn,  or  Manzoni,  in  place  of  drawing  it  direct  and  pure 
from  the  Catechism  or  the  Gospel.  And  far  larger  num- 
bers still,  as  we  may  all  of  us  be  conscious  from  our  own 
experience,  owe  it  to  the  novels  with  which  they  occa- 
sionally refresh  their  wayworn  spirits  along  the  world's 
hot  and  dusty  thoroughfare,  that  the  perception  of  the 
beautiful,  the  enthusiasm  for  the  grand,  and  all  the 
finer  sentiments  and  gentler  and  tenderer  emotions  which 
soften  and  embellish  life,  are  not  utterly  dried  uj^,  or 
crusted  over,  or  trodden  out,  amid  the  fatigues  and  con- 
flicts and  turmoil  of  this  arid  and  weary  existence. 
There  is  yet  another  consideration  which  points  in  the 


FALSE  MORALITY  OF  LADY  NO^^LISTS.  89 

same  direction.  Prose  fiction  furnishes  not  only  the 
favorite  reading  of  the  young ;  it  is  also  the  line  in 
Avhich  young  writers  most  incline  to  try  their  powers. 
A  few  of  the  more  enthusiastic  make  their  first  essay  in 
verse,  but  the  large  majority  prefer  novels.  These  are 
easier,  they  require  less  sustained  effort,  and  they  are 
incomparably  more  certain  of  an  audience.  Again,  women, 
as  we  have  said  above,  are  the  chief  readers  of  novels ; 
they  are  also,  of  late  at  least,  the  chief  writers  of  them. 
A  great  proportion  of  these  authoresses  too  are  young 
ladies.  There  are  vast  numbers  of  lady  novelists,  ibr 
much  the  same  reason  that  there  are  vast  numbers  of 
sempstresses.  Thousands  of  women  have  nothing  to  do, 
and  yet  are  under  the  necessity  of  doing  something. 
Every  woman  can  handle  a  needle  tant  hien  qm  mal : 
every  unemployed  woman,  therefore,  takes  to  sewing. 
Hundreds  of  educated  ladies  have  nothing  to  do,  and  yet 
are  tormented  with  a  most  natural  desire,  nay,  are  often 
under  a  positive  obligation,  to  do  something.  Every  edu- 
cated lady  can  handle  a  pen  tant  hien  que  mal :  all  such, 
therefore,  take  to  writing,  —  and  to  novel-writing,  both 
as  the  kind  which  requires  the  least  special  qualification 
and  the  least  severe  study,  and  also  as  the  only  kind 
which  will  sell  The  number  of  youthful  novelists,  and 
of  young  lady  novelists,  extant  at  this  moment,  passes 
calculation,  and  was  unparalleled  at  any  former  epoch. 
Indeed,  the  supply  of  the  fiction  market  has  mainly  fallen 
into  tlieir  hands  ;  and  it  speaks  well  for  the  general  taste 
and  cultivation  of  the  age,  that,  under  such  circumstances, 
so  many  of  the  new  novels  that  pour  forth  weekly  from 
the  press  sliould  be  really  interesting  and  clever,  and 
that  so  few  should  be  utterly  poor  or  bad.  But  it  is  in  the 
nature  of  things  impossible  that  productions  of  such  a 
character,  from  such  a  source,  however  able  or  however 
captivating,  should  not  be  radically  and  inherently  defec- 
tive. The  plot  may  be  exciting,  the  style  may  be  flowing, 
the  sentiments  maybe  pleasing  and  even  stirring,  and  the 
characters  may  be  natural,  interesting,  and  well  sustained  ; 
but  the  views  of  life  and  the  judgments  of  conduct  must 


90  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGLIE:;TS. 

be  imperfect  and  superficial,  and  "svill  often  l;e  tlior- 
oup;lily  unsound.  These  things  cannot  bo  surely  deduced, 
as  is  too  often  fancied,  from  certain  fixed  rules  and  prin- 
ciples which  may  be  learned  a  priori ;  they  depend  in  a 
great  measure  on  observation  and  exjierience,  on  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  and  of  tlie  cliaracters  that  move  and 
act  there,  and  on  the  ascertained  conseciuences  of  actions 
and  influences  of  qualities.  Kow  here  the  young  are 
necessarily  wanting.  If  the  writer  be  a  young  man,  his 
experience  in  life  must  be  brief,  imperfect,  and  inade- 
quate. If  the  writer  be  a  young  lady,  her  exp.erience  must 
be  not  only  all  this,  l)ut  must  be  partial  in  addition.  "Whole 
spheres  of  observation,  M'hole  brandies  of  character  and 
conduct,  are  almost  inevitably  closed  to  her.  Kay,  even 
with  respect  to  the  one  topic  which  forms  the  staple  of 
most  novels,  and  a  main  ingredient  in  all,  namely,  love, 
and  its  various  phases,  varieties,  and  developments,  —  her 
means  of  judgment  and  of  delineation  must  be  always 
scanty  and  generally  superficial.  She  may  have  felt  the 
passion,  it  is  true ;  but  she  will  have  felt  it  only  in  one 
form, —  the  form  congenial  to  her  owu  nature;  she 
will  be  able,  therefore,  in  all  likelihood,  to  depict  it  only 
under  one  aspect,  and  will  estimate  its  character  and  con- 
sequences from  a  personal  point  of  view.  She  may  pjos- 
sil)ly  have  enjoyed  (or  sufi'ered)  opportunities  of  observ- 
ing the  workings  of  the  sentiment  in  some  one  of  her 
friends ;  but  its  wilder  issues  and  its  fiercer  crises  are 
necessarily  and  righteously  hidden  from  her  sight.  She 
may,  by  dint  of  that  marvellous  faculty  of  sympathy  and 
intuition  which  is  given  to  those  who  have  felt  pro- 
foundly and  suffered  long,  be  able  to  divine  much  whicli 
she  cannot  discover,  and  to  conceive  much  which  she  lias 
never  seen  or  heard  ;  and  the  pure  and  God-given  in- 
stincts which  some  women  possess  in  so  rare  a  measure 
may  enable  her  to  distinguish  between  the  genuine  and 
tlie  false,  the  noble -and  the  low  ;  but  many  of  the  saddest 
and  deepest  truths  in  the  strange  science  of  sexual  aHec- 
tion  are  to  her  mysteriously  and  mercifully  veiled ;  and 
the  knowledge  of  them  can  only  be  purchased  at  such  a 


FALSE   MORALITY   OF   LADY  NOVELISTS.  91 

fearful  cost  that  we  cannot  wish  it  otherwise.  The  inev- 
itable consequence,  however,  is,  that  in  treating  of  that 
science  she  labors  under  all  the  disadvantages  of  partial 
study  and  superficial  insight.  She  is  describing  a  country 
of  which  she  knows  only  the  more  frequented  and  the 
safer  roads,  with  a  few  of  the  sweeter  scenes  and  the 
prettier  by-paths  and  more  picturesqvie  detours  which  lie 
not  far  from  the  broad  and  beaten  thoroughfares  ;  while 
the  rockier  and  loftier  mountains,  the  more  rugged  tracks, 
the  more  sombre  valleys,  and  the  darker  and  more  dan- 
gerous chasms,  are  never  trodden  by  her  feet,  and  scarcely 
ever  dreamed  of  by  her  fancy. 

In  youth,  moreover,  and  in  the  youth  of  women  more 
especially,  there  is  a  degree  of  exaltation  of  mind  and 
temper  which,  beautiful  as  it  is,  and  deeply  as  we  should 
grieve  over  its  absence,  partakes  of,  or  at  least  has  a 
strong  tendency  to  degenerate  into,  the  morbid  and  un- 
sound. It  may  add  to  the  interest  of  a  tale,  but  it  ren- 
ders it  unfaithful  as  a  picture  of  life,  unsafe  as  a  guide 
to  the  judgment,  and  often  noxious  in  its  influence  on 
the  feelings.  In  short,  —  and  to  sum  up  in  a  single  sen- 
tence the  gist  of  all  that  we  have  said,  —  that  branch  of 
the  literature  of  our  day  which  exercises  the  widest  and 
most  penetrating  influence  on  the  age,  —  from  wdiich  the 
young  and  the  impressible  (nearly  all  of  us,  in  short,  at  one 
period  or  other)  chiefly  draw  their  notions  of  life,  their 
canons  of  judgment,  their  habitual  sentiments  and  feel- 
ings (so  far  as  these  are  drawn  from  literature  at  all),  and 
their  impressions  as  to  what  is  admirable  and  right  and 
what  is  detestable  and  wrong, — is  to  a  great  extent  in 
the  hands  of  writers  whose  experience  of  life  is  seldom 
wide  and  never  deep,  whose  sympathies  have  not  yet 
been  chastened  or  corrected,  whose  philosophy  is  inevita- 
bly superficial,  whose  judgment  cannot  possibly  be  ma- 
tured, and  is  not  very  likely  to  be  sound.  The  result  is, 
that  we  are  constantly  gazing  on  inaccurate  pictures,  con- 
stantly sympathizing  with  artificial  or  reprehensible  emo- 
tions, constantly  admiring  culpable  conduct,  constantly 
imbibing  false  morality. 


92  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

It  is  chiefly  with  reference  to  this  last  point  that  we 
are  moved  at  present  to  bear  testimony.  A  large  propor- 
tion of  the  novels  we  have  recently  perused  appear  to  us 
to  inculcate  principles  so  essentially  erroneous,  and  to 
hold  up  to  admiration  cliaracters  and  actions  so  intrinsi- 
cally culpable  and  mistaken,  that  we  should  consider 
ourselves  wanting  in  the  discharge  of  our  duty  as  etliical 
critics  if  we  neglected  to  enter  our  protest,  and  to  record 
the  grounds  of  our  dissent.  The  unsound  and  immoral 
doctrines  which  we  wish  especially  to  signalize  may  be 
classed  under  four  heads  :  false  notions  of  honor ;  egotis- 
tical notions  of  self-sacrifice ;  sinful  notions  of  compas- 
sion ;  and  distorted  notions  of  the  relative  enormity  of 
various  failings  and  offences.  And  we  propose  to  draw 
our  illustrations  from  tales,  all  of  which  are  remarkable 
for  merits  of  no  trivial  order,  and  are  written  Avith  the 
best  intentions. 

Mildred  Vernon  is  a  novel  of  more  than  ordinary  ex- 
cellence. It  is  unusually  well  written ;  the  characters 
are  well  sustained ;  the  conversations  are  natural  and 
lively ;  the  plot  is  one  of  great  interest  and  is  skilfully 
developed ;  and  although  nnich  of  the  society  into  which 
we  are  introduced  is,  both  socially  and  politically,  as  bad 
as  need  be,  —  the  scene  being  laid  among  the  higlier 
ranks  in  Paris  towards  the  close  of  Louis  Philippe's 
reign,  —  yet  the  tone  and  feeling  of  the  book  are  good 
throughout,  and  the  morality,  while  neither  narrow  nor 
severe,  is  on  the  whole  pure,  correct,  and  even  high- 
minded.  The  life  painted  is  corrupt  and  profligate  to  a 
startling  degree ;  but  the  author  steers  perfectly  clear  of 
the  too  common  and  most  heinous  faults  of  exciting  dan- 
gerous passions  by  delineating  scenes  of  temptation  and 
of  sin,  or  of  enlisting  the  special  interest  of  the  reader  on 
behalf  of  the  splendid  or  voluptuous  sinner.  But  this 
pre\'alent  healthiness  of  sentiment  and  j'usfcsse  crcsprit 
throw  into  still  stronger  relief  the  false  notions  of  honor 
which  are  described  and  inculcated  in  the  main  denoue- 
ment of  the  story. 


FALSE  MORALITY  OF   LADY  NOVELISTS.  93 

Mildred  Vernon  is  the  beautiful,  proud,  pure,  but 
somewhat  puritanical  and  rigid  wife  of  a  baronet  of 
strong  passions,  weak  principles,  ample  wealth,  and  deep- 
rooted  but  not  ostentatious  selfishness.  She  loves  him 
as  an  ordinary  English  wife  loves  an  ordinary  English 
husband,  —  that  is,  it  was  a  love-match,  —  and  she  is 
most  dutifully  devoted  to  him  in  all  points;  but  her 
deeper  feelings  have  never  been  awakened,  and  she  has 
no  more  notion  that  she  could  ever  be  tempted  than  that 
she  could  ever  sin.  Sir  Edward  brings  her  to  Paris,  finds 
access  into  one  of  the  best  circles  of  the  Faubourg  St. 
Germain,  and  establishes  his  wife  therein ;  and  then 
himself  falls  under  the  influence  of  one  of  the  most  fas- 
cinating and  vicious  of  the  lionncs  who  infested  the 
higher  ranks  in  that  profligate  capital  at  that  profligate 
epoch.  He  becomes  utterly  bewitched,  and  all  ]iis  bad 
qualities  are  brought  out  by  tlie  corrupting  and  degrad- 
ing connection.  He  neglects  Mildred,  insults  her,  out- 
rages all  her  sensibility  of  feeling  and  all  her  ideas  of 
virtue  and  decorum,  unpardonably  offends  her  dignity  as 
a  wife,  and,  as  she  is  very  strict  and  very  proud,  irretriev- 
ably alienates  her  affections.  She  has  loved  him  for 
being  what  she  had  believed  him ;  she  how  despises  and 
dislikes  him,  because  she  sees  him  as  he  really  is.  Dur- 
ing the  whole  of  tliis  period  she  is  constantly  with  the 
Duchess  de  Montevreux  and  her  family.  The  son,  Gas- 
ton de  Montevreux,  a  cultivated  and  superior  man,  Avith 
all  tlie  French  agreeable  politeness  and  too  much  of  the 
French  laxity  of  morals,  Ijecomes  ardently  attached  to 
her,  sees  her  daily,  and  shields  her  as  much  as  he  can 
from  a  knowledge  of  her  husband's  misbehavior.  She, 
who  is  innocence  itself,  and  cold  not  from  nature  but 
from  habit  and  education,  is  for  long  wholly  unconscious 
both  of  his  devotion  and  of  the  degree  in  which  licr  own 
feelings  have  become  involved ;  but  as  soon  as  the  truth 
flashes  upon  her,  she  acts  as  an  English  matron  should 
aiul  will.  She  has  never  the  least  notion  of  weakly 
yielding ;  but  she  perceives  that  her  sentiments  toward 
the  young  duke  are  such  as  ought  not  to  be  indulged, 


94  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

and  that,  deserted  as  she  is  l)y  lier  liusbaud,  slic  would 
he  more  litly  and  safely  situated  among  her  friends  in 
England.  Thither  aceordingly  she  returns,  —  learning 
too  plainly  from  the  separation  tliat  Gaston  has  now  he- 
come  all  in  all  to  her.  After  an  interval  of  some  months 
he  follows  her;  circumstances  bring  about  a  mutual 
eclaircissc7nent ;  she  does  not  deceive  him  as  to  the  state 
of  her  affections,  but  compels  him  to  be  generous  and  to 
respect  her.  His  love  and  character  become  purified  by 
the  i)urity  and  elevation  of  hers ;  she  reminds  liim  of  all 
he  owes  to  his  family  and  his  country,  and  at  length  in- 
duces him  to  show  himself  worthy  of  a  love  of  which 
neither  need  be  ashamed,  instead  of  hankering  after  one 
Avhich  could  only  be  successful  by  becoming  sinful,  and 
to  return  to  France,  and  seek  in  the  noble  duties  and 
excitements  of  public  life  either  strength  to  forget  or 
patience  to  await.  In  consequence,  contrary  to  all  the 
principles  and  traditions  of  his  iamily,  who  had  hitherto 
held  scrupulously  aloof  from  the  Orleans  regime,  he 
enters  the  Chamber,  and  becomes  a  distinguished  senator 
and  speaker. 

]\Ieanwliilo  Sir  Edward  Vernon  is  pursuing  in  Paris 
and  at  Baden  a  course  of  dissipation  wliicli  is  rapidly 
wasting  his  fortune  and  undermining  his  health,  already 
shattered  by  a  wound  received  in  a  disreputable  duel. 
His  wife's  generosity  and  the  aid  of  her  friends  rescue 
him  from  prison ;  but  he  declines  to  reunite  their  lives, 
and  leaves  her  formally  and  finally.  jMildred,  who  has 
returned  to  Paris  in  order  to  make  her  benevolent  ar- 
rangements for  Sir  Edward,  is  now  daily  in  Gaston's 
company :  all  that  is  innocent  in  their  love  is  gratitied, 
—  all  that  woidd  be  culpable  and  unworthy  is  banished, 
even  in  thought,  far  from  them  ;  and  both,  though  in  dif- 
ferent measure,  grow  wiser,  nobler,  tenderer,  and  stronger, 
alike  from  the  permitted  happiness  and  the  enforced  con- 
trol. All  this  is  beautifully  painted.  But  now  comes 
the  crisis  of  the  story,  and  the  occasion  of  the  false  mo- 
rality. Gaston  had  been  betrothed,  as  is  customary  in 
France,  to  a  young  cousin   of  his,  Olympe,  then  only 


FALSE  MORALITY  OF  LADY  NOVELISTS.  95 

about  fifteen  and  in  a  convent.  He  had  scarcely  seen 
her ;  he  had  no  feeling  for  her  :  the  affair  was  a  contract, 
a  plan,  a  family  arrangement.  She  was  very  pretty  and 
very  rich.  Tlie  idea  of  marrying  her  was  of  course,  in 
Gaston's  new  circumstances  and  under  his  new  and  purer 
notions  of  morality,  rendered  simply  impossible  to  him 
by  his  absorbing  and  resolute  attachment  to  Lady  Ver- 
non ;  and  on  one  pretext  or  another,  all  consideration  of 
the  affair  had  been  postponed.  Gaston  waited  for  some 
occurrence  or  reason  which  should  avowedly  release  him 
from  his  engagement.  AVhile  matters  were  in  this  posi- 
tion, nearly  the  whole  of  Olympe's  fortune  was  in\'ested 
by  a  speculative  guardian  in  the  scrip  of  a  railway,  the 
bill  for  authorizing  which  (the  concession,  as  it  is  there 
called)  was  then  passing  through  the  Chamber.  The 
success  of  this  bill  would  double  Olympe's  dowry ;  the 
rejection  of  it  would  sweep  it  nearly  all  away.  Gaston, 
wholly  unconscious  of  this  complication,  carefully  exam- 
ines the  railway  project  on  its  merits,  decides  against 
them,  and  makes  so  convincing  a  speech  in  the  Chamber, 
that  the  concession  is  refused.  (All  this,  be  it  said,  is 
absurdly  improbable  in  France  at  such  a  time.  But  let 
that  pass.)  That  very  day  he  had  written  to  the  mother 
of  his  cousin,  to  decline  fulfilling  his  engagement  with 
her ;  but  Madame  de  Montevreux  had  intercepted  and 
delayed  the  letter,  and  Olympe's  ruin,  caused  by  Gas- 
ton's speecli,  made  it  apparently  imiMssihle  to  send  it 
now.  Tlie  painful  and  difficult  character  of  the  dilemma 
is  visible  at  a  glance,  especially  when  we  add  that,  to 
complete  it,  and  before  the  sacrifice  is  consummated,  Sir 
Edward  Vernon  dies  suddenly  and  as  disreputably  as  he 
had  lived,  and  leaves  Mildred  free. 

The  solution  of  a  difficulty  such  as  this  is  as  good  a 
test  as  could  well  be  devised  of  the  soundness  of  the 
moral  philosophy  of  the  author,  and  the  principles  and 
resolution  of  the  actors  involvTd.  In  this  case,  it  is 
solved  according  to  the  radically  immoral  notions  of 
"  honor  "  prevalent  in  the  highest  ranks  of  most  countries. 
Gaston  at  first  is  determined  to  be  true  to  his  instincts 


96  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

and  his  love  ;  Init  liis  mother  and  tlie  pious  and  holy  con- 
fessor (the  Aljljc  de  Nangis)  and  poor  Mildred,  —  whose 
somewhat  exalte  disinterestedness  and  generous  concern 
for  Gaston's  reputation  Madame  do  Mont^vreux  is  cruel 
enough  to  enlist  for  her  purposes, —  all  decide  against 
him ;  and  he  yields.  He  marries  his  cousin,  wliom  he 
does  not  love  ;  and  sacrifices  Mildred,  whom  he  does  love, 
and  whose  devoted  fondness  he  has  gained  Ijy  years  of 
passionate  promises  and  vows,  and  more  recently  by  daily 
intercourse  of  the  most  intimate  and  confiding  sort.  And 
all  parties  concerned  are  regarded  as  having  done  not 
only  what  was  right,  but  what  was  most  eminently  and 
sublimely  virtuous.  Now  what  are  the  motives  which 
decide  them,  and  the  arguments  to  which  Gaston  yields  ? 
That  "  the  world "  \\-ill  attribute  Gaston's  breaking  off 
the  match  to  the  loss  of  Olympe's  fortune,  and  that  the 
irreproachable  good  fame  and  sacred  "  honor  of  an  ancient 
and  noble  family "  will  be  in  consequence  irreparably 
tarnished.  "  The  Due  de  IMontevreux  "  will  he  thought  to 
have  acted  meanly.  It  is  true,  the  mother  urges  both 
to  Mildred  and  to  her  son  that  Lady  A^ernon's  reputation 
would  be  in  danger  of  being  compromised  (again  the 
eyes  of  "  the  world "),  as  she  would  be  considered  the 
cause  of  Gaston's  having  taken  such  a  step ;  but  this  is 
only  thrown  in  as  a  make-weight,  and  is  clearly  of  little 
real  influence,  inasmuch  as,  if  the  first  explanation  would 
be  so  sure  of  adoption  by  the  censorious  j)ublic,  the  second 
need  not  have  been  sought  for.  AYhat,  then,  is  the  plain 
English  of  the  whole  ?  Gaston  commits  a  Idchde  awA  ^ 
crime  to  avoid  heing  thought  guilty  of  a  baseness.  He 
behaves  cruelly  to  Mildred,  lest  the  world  should  believe 
he  has  acted  shabbily  to  Olympe.  He  breaks  his  faith, 
lest  he  should  be  supposed  to  have  stained  his  honor. 
With  his  whole  heart  and  soul  bound  up  in  one  woman, 
he  goes  to  the  altar  with  another,  and  plights  to  her  his 
exclusive  devotion  and  his  eternal  tenderness.  He  pre- 
fers the  reality  to  the  appearance  of  doing  wrong  and 
acting  falsely.  A  saintly  priest  blesses  and  applauds  the 
hideous  falsehood  and  the  barbarous  sacrifice;  and  all 


FALSE  MORALITY  OF  LADY   NOVELISTS.  97 

the  four  participators  in  tins  sin  fancy  tliey  have  risen 
to  the  very  zenith  of  martyred  virtue. 

This  error  is  the  more  to  be  deplored  because,  in  one 
most  touching  episode  in  these  volumes,  the  writer  has 
instinctiv^ely  seized  upon  the  true  moral  view,  where 
merely  conventional  thinkers  would  have  missed  it.  The 
story  of  Madame  de  Boislambert  is  one  of  the  most 
touching  we  ever  read.  Pure,  noble,  and  tender,  with 
all  the  mingled  softness  and  intensity  of  feeling  due  to 
her  Spanish  and  Moorish  origin,  and  brouglit  up  by  her 
mother  in  the  doctrine  that  a  promise,  to  whomsoever 
and  under  whatsoever  circumstances  given,  is  to  be 
sacredly  fulfilled,  she  in  early  youth  yiekls  her  affections 
and  plights  her  troth  to  a  remarkable  young  man  named 
Lionel  Chavigny.  He  is  bourgeois  ;  and  her  family,  there- 
fore, would  forbid  the  match  had  they  ever  dreamed  of 
its  possibility,  and  liad  they  not  designed  their  daughter 
for  tlie  Marquis  de  Boislambert,  a  fine  dignified  general, 
but  now  in  middle  life.  Tlie  poor  girl  consults  her  con- 
fessor, the  Abbe  de  Nangis,  wlio,  finding  how  irrevocably 
her  heart  is  fixed,  at  last  consents  to  aid  her  so  far  as  to 
persuade  her  mother  to  postpone  tlie  proposed  marriage 
with  the  general  for  a  year  or  two.  Lionel  is  summoned 
to  Spain  :  in  about  six  months,  a  report  of  his  marriage, 
false,  but  so  corroborated  as  to  leave  no  room  for  question, 
reaches  her;  and  in  the  revulsion  of  grief  and  despair, 
slie  consents'  to  marry  INI.  de  Boislambert  whenever  her 
parents  wish  it.  With  him  she  enjoys  seven  years  of 
such  modified  happiness  as  a  heart  so  deeply  wounded 
can  obtain ;  for  her  husband,  though  somewhat  formal, 
and  too  dignified  to  manifest  the  true  and  deep  affection 
which  he  feels,  is  an  excellent  and  noble  friend,  full  of 
kindness  and  indulgence  ;  and  she  has  two  sweet  children, 
on  whom  slie  lavishes  all  the  boundless  tenderness  of  her 
nature.  Suddenly  Chavigny  reappears ;  she  learns  the 
mistake  which  has  lost  her  to  him  forever,  and  sees  how 
fearfully  the  bitterness  of  her  supposed  faithlessness  has 
changed  him.  Her  self-reproach  is  deep  and  dangerous  : 
she  mourns  over  and  would  fain  redeem  the  moral  ruin 

5  o 


98  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

she  has  wrought.  Lionel,  whose  knowledge  of  the  world 
and  cool  consummate  science  make  him  one  of  the 
most  formidable  of  men,  takes  advantage  of  her  mood, 
and  in  a  moment  of  wild  and  passing  delirium  she  is  lost. 
It  was  but  a  moment ;  tlie  revulsion  was  immediate  ;  lier 
shame  and  grief  were  overwhelming.  She  leaves  her  hus- 
band's house  alone;  for  Chavigny  declines  to  ruin  her 
reputation  as  well  as  her  peace  by  accepting  the  sacrifice 
she  offers  ;  but  she  will  not  deceive  the  husband  she  has 
betrayed,  and  refuses  to  return  home.  The  story  soon 
becomes  known,  and  even  in  Paris  excites  deep  regret 
and  sympathy ;  for  Louise  is  universally  worshipped  and 
beloved.  Every  one  —  even  her  husband  —  feels  it  im- 
possible to  attach  the  idea  of  fj2iilt  to  the  momentary  frenzy 
of  one  so  pure ;  and  M.  de  Boislambert,  when,  after  the 
lapse  of  a  year,  he  has  discovered  her  retreat,  allows  her 
to  see  her  children,  and,  conquered  by  his  own  love  and 
her  deep  contrition  and  intrinsic  excellence,  offers  pardon 
and  ]'econciliation.  The  scene  which  ensues  is  one  of  the 
most  affecting  in  any  work  of  fiction.  The  poor  aftlicted, 
himibled  wife,  overcome  by  her  husband's  attachment  and 
generosity,  and  yearning  more  than  words  can  tell  to  be 
back  with  him  and  with  her  children,  yet  fears  that  she 
ought  not  to  accept  a  forgiveness  of  whicli  few  could  com- 
prehend the  grandeur  or  the  beauty,  and  which,  therefore, 
would  expose  him  to  ridicule  and  evil  tongues.  So  far 
all  is  sound  and  genuine  feeling.  But  now  comes  in 
that  fascinating  notion  of  self-sacrifice,  so  fatal  M-hen  per- 
verted and  sentimental ;  and  Louise,  feeling  that  she  has 
"no  right"  to  be  so  happy,  determines  that  duty  compels 
her  to  make  all  connected  with  her  as  unhappy  as  slie 
can.  Two  considerations  finally,  after  a  fearful  strugj^le, 
decide  her  to  decline  her  husband's  love,  and  to  leave 
him  forever  because  she  liad  left  him  for  an  hour.  Fird, 
she  says  that  she  has  "  the  sins  of  two  souls  upon  her 
conscience,"  and  her  life  must  henceforth  be  devoted  to 
an  expiation  for  them  both :  so  she  becomes  a  Sceur  dc 
Charite,  and  deserts  the  duty  of  consoling  and  cheering 
the  husband  and  the  children  whom  God  has  given  her, 


FALSE  MORALITY  OF  LADY  IJOVELISTS.  99 

for  that  of  consoling  and  cheering  the  miscellaneous  poor 
whom  she  may  find  in  hospitals  !  And,  spxondly,  she 
argues  that  she  must  not  expose  her  husband  to  the  ridi- 
cule which  "  the  world  "  attaches  to  the  husband  who 
forgives  ;  and,  to  clinch  the  argument,  when  one  of  the 
most  outrageous  lorettcs  of  Paris,  in  passing  her,  lets  fall 
a  remark  about  "  improper  persons,"  she  returns  to  jM.  de 
Boislambert,  and  says  (as  if  this  practical  proof  admitted 
no  rejoinder),  "  You  see,  Ferdinand,  it  cannot  be  ! "  If 
this  be  not  deplorable  weakness  and  distortion,  our  notions 
of  right  and  wrong  must  be  far  astray. 

Zeonie  Vermont  is,  like  Ilildrcd  Vernon,  a  picture  of 
happiness  abandoned  and  love  trampled  under  foot  in  obe- 
dience to  misty  and  crooked  notions  of  what  honor  and 
dignity  enjoin.  The  Comte  de  Briancour,  a  legitimist 
noble  of  the  true  old  incurable  type,  adopts  and  brings 
up  with  his  own  children  the  son  and  daughter  of  a  com- 
rade of  inferior  rank,  —  in  fact,  a  sergeant  of  his  regi- 
ment, —  who  had  saved  his  life  in  battle.  The  brother 
and  sister  receive  a  good  education,  but  grow  up  as  dif- 
ferent as  it  is  possible  to  conceive.  Philippe  Vermont, 
who  proves  to  have  considerable  talents  as  an  artist,  is  a 
type  of  everything  that  is  mean  and  revolting  in  the 
French  character.  Ambitious,  envious,  treacherous,  and 
malignant,  without  principles  as  without  convictions,  an 
admirer  of  sensual  beauty  and  caring  only  for  sensual 
enjoyment,  he  adopts  Republican  views  in  their  worst 
and  lowest  form,  goes  to  the  metropolis,  and  there  leads  a 
life  of  alternate  political  intrigue,  profligate  pleasure,  and 
pictorial  success.  His  sister  Lcouie  —  an  ardent  and  en- 
thusiastic republican  ;  a  true  daughter  of  "  the  People," 
and  believing  above  all  tilings  in  the  people's  nobleness  ; 
grand,  beautiful,  and  haughty,  full  of  elevated  sentiments 
and  commanding  courage  —  reads  her  brother's  character 
to  its  very  depths,  and  distrusts,  despises,  and  dislikes 
him.  Ferdinand  de  Briancour,  the  only  son  of  the 
count,  is  a  young  poet  of  honorable  and  refined  senti- 
ments, considerable  ability,  and  liberal  though  decidedly 


100  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

monarchical  in  his  political  opinions.  Brought  up  with 
Luonie  in  the  retirement  of  a  country-house,  he,  as  might 
be  expected,  falls  in  love  with  her;  and  slie  after  a  wliile 
returns  his  affection,  with  all  the  concentrated  strength 
of  her  vigorous  and  unsophisticated  nature.  But  she  is 
too  proud  to  dream  of  marrying  Ferdinand  witliout  the 
count's  consent,  and  the  count's  consent  both  the  lov- 
ers well  know  will  never  be  given  to  a  mesalliance. 
So  they  resolve  to  love  on,  and  wait  patiently  i'or  bet- 
ter days.  In  the  mean  time  the  whole  iamily  go  to 
Paris,  and  the  llevolution  of  1848  breaks  out.  Phi- 
lippe Vermont,  who  has  been  a  leading  member  of 
those  secret  societies  where  socialism  was  preached 
as  a  creed  and  assassination  enjoined  as  a  duty,  and 
which  so  largely  contributed  to  the  fatal  success  of  that 
most  deplorable  outbreak,  becomes  a  great  man,  and  is 
represented  as  holding  the  position  actually  assigned  to 
Louis  Blanc.  He  revels  in  all  the  joys  of  luxury  and 
power ;  his  selfishness,  meanness,  and  the  utter  insincer- 
ity of  all  his  ultra-liberal  professions,  become  daily  more 
manifest ;  and  ever  fresh  instances  of  his  profligacy  un- 
veil his  character  more  and  more  to  his  disgusted  connec- 
tions. With  the  establishment  of  regular  government 
his  post  is  taken  from  him ;  he  fails  (wliile  Ferdinand 
succeeds)  in  being  elected  a  member  of  the  Chamber,  and 
sinks  down  into  one  of  the  most  desperate  and  dishonest 
of  the  insurgent  conspirators  of  June.  The  dreadful 
scenes  of  that  three  days'  conflict  are  well  described. 
Philippe  is  there,  but  in  safety,  and  adds  cowardice  to  his 
other  vices.  He  is  on  the  barricades  at  last ;  and  when 
the  gallant  and  saintly  Archbishop  of  Paris  appeared 
amid  the  combatants,  cross  in  hand,  towards  the  eiid  of 
the  third  day,  to  prevent  further  bloodshed,  Philippe's 
was  supposed  to  be  the  hand  which  fired  the  fatal  shot 
which  slew  that  venerated  prelate,  whose  death  struck 
both  parties  with  horror.  Philippe  escapes  to  England  ; 
but  is  burnt  in  effigy  by  the  populace,  and  condemned 
2)ar  contumacc  by  the  authorities. 
And  now  comes  into  play  the  paltry,  distorted,  fanci- 


FALSE  MORALITY  OF  LADY  NOVELISTS.  101 

fill  morality  which  we  denounce.  As  soon  as  this  catas- 
trophe and  Philippe's  reported  share  in  it  become  kno\A'n, 
L^onie,  though  heart-broken  by  the  conviction,  deter- 
mines that  her  engagement  with  Ferdinand  must  be 
broken  off;  that  their  union  thenceforth  would  be  a  crime 
in  her  and  an  infamy  to  him  ;  and  not  only  his  saintly 
sister,  Madame  Isabelle,  and  the  saintly  priest,  the  Abbe 
de  Lavergne,  but  Ferdinand  himself,  while  wild  with 
grief  at  the  decision,  at  once  accept  it  as  obviously  and 
indisputably  inevitable.  The  marriage  from  that  mo- 
ment becomes  in  the  eyes  of  all  a  guilty  impossibilitij. 
The  author's  mind  here  seems  to  grow  as  muddy  as  those 
of  her  heroines  and  heroes  ;  and  her  development  of 
this,  the  denouement  of  her  story,  is  singularly  weak 
and  inconclusive.  Observe  :  —  The  engagement  between 
Ferdinand  and  L^onie  was  entered  into  with  the  full 
knowledge  on  the  part  of  both  of  Philippe's  utter  low- 
ness  and  unworthiness  of  nature ;  neither  of  them 
dreamed  that  the  brother's  vice  could  tarnish  or  obscure 
the  sister's  inherent  nobleness,  or  render  her  union  with 
a  high-minded  and  long-descended  gentleman  other  than 
an  equal  and  a  righteous  match  :  and  both  Madame  Isa- 
belle and  the  Abbe  sanctioned  and  blessed  the  project. 
They  subsequently  discover  that  Philippe  has  seduced 
and  ruined  a  poor  girl  in  whom  they  were  deeply  in- 
terested, and  that  his  desertion  has  driven  her  to  sui- 
cide ;  but  their  pain  and  indignation  lead  to  no  ideas 
menacing  their  love.  They  learn  that  he  is  the  leader 
of  a  band  of  secret  conspirators,  whose  object  is  anarchj'^ 
and  pillage,  and  among  whose  means  is  murder  ;  yet  this 
even  raises  no  barrier  between  the  lovers.  They  know 
him  to  be  infamous  in  every  way,  and  by  every  title ; 
yet  never  dream  that  the  infamy  of  the  brother  disgraces 
or  implicates  the  sister,  or  makes  her  a  thing  which  an 
honorable  man  may  not  take  to  his  bosom  and  cover 
Avith  his  name.  But  no  sooner  do  they  see  him  burnt  in 
effigy  amid  the  curses  of  the  mob  whom  he  had  aban- 
doned and  misled,  —  no  sooner  do  they  learn  that  he 
(like  so  many  other  insurgents)  has  been  condemned  to 


UNIVERSITY  OF .  c:ALIFOIV>v'  1 . . 
6ANTA  BARBARA  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 


102  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

the  galleys  he  had  all  along  dcscrverJ, —  no  sooner  do  they 
hear  that  his  is  said  to  be  the  hand  which  slew  the  Arch- 
bishop (thoujrh  no  evidence  of  the  fact  can  be  obtained, 
and  thougli  the  tenor  of  the  narrative  implies  that  the 
fatal  shot,  if  fired  by  him  at  all,  was  not  designed  for  the 
martyred  prelate,  but  for  a  personal  antagonist  with  whom 
he  was  struggling  in  a  mortal  conflict),  —  than  the  mask 
falls  from  their  eyes  at  once,  and  they  perceive,  as  by  a 
flash  of  lio-htuinrr,  that  "  a  name  "  so  infamous  as  tliat  of 
Vermont  can  never  mingle  with  a  name  so  noble  as  tliat 
of  Briancour!  What  hollow  seliishness,  what  cruel 
pride,  are  here  decked  out  in  the  rich  plumes  of 
"  Honor ! "  What  a  poor  and  unreal  passion  comes  in  to 
claim  the  crown  of  martyrdom,  and  calls  upon  Eeligion 
to  cast  her  halo  round  tlie  shallow  fallacy !  For,  of 
course,  the  Abbe  applauds,  and  even  urges  the  self-sacri- 
fice ;  and  sends  Leonie  with  "  upturned  eyes  "  and  broken 
heart  into  a  convent.  Observe  once  more  (that  we  may 
tear  away  the  veil  completely  from  this  exalte  and  high- 
sounding  sophistry) :  Philippe  Vermont  has  committed 
crimes  and  meannesses  xcorthy  of  the  galleys,  yet  Leonie, 
indignant  and  disgusted  as  she  is,  feels  no  dishonor  re- 
coiling upon  her,  nor  does  Ferdinand  shrink  from  the 
sister  on  account  of  the  brothers  abject  and  alien  nature  ; 
but  as  soon  as  he  receives  (though  in  liis  absence)  the 
legal  recompense  of  his  deeds,  then  all  must  be  ended 
between  tliem.  He  is  already  so  infamous  that  no  con- 
demnation, however  public,  can  make  him  more  so : 
his  condemnation  teaches  tlicm  nothing  new,  but  it 
proclaims  all  to  the  world  ;  and  herein  lies  the  sting, 
the  difference,  the  damning  and  deciding  fact !  Leonie 
renounces  her  affianced  husband,  and  Ferdinand  accepts 
the  renunciation,  not  because  Philippe  is  a  cowardly  and 
blood-stained  ruffian,  with  whom  the  remotest  connec- 
tion is  inlierent  sliame,  but  because  he  has  been  dis- 
covered and  denounced  as  such.  And  finally,  to  com- 
plete the  distortion  of  view  manifest  tliroughout :  —  All 
the  blood  which  Philippe  has  indirectly  shed,  all  the  ig- 
norant assassins  whose  hands  he  has  armed  and  whose 


FALSE   MORALITY  OF   LADY   NOVELISTS.  103 

fury  he  lias  whetted,  raise  no  dividing  cloud  between 
Leonie  and  her  betrothed  ;  but  in  a  civil  conflict  he  acci- 
dentally slays  an  archbishop  who  is  bearing  the  emblem 
of  peace  to  the  insurgents;  he  is  believed  to- have  un- 
designedly imbrued  his  hands  in  the  blood  of  a  venerated 
prelate;  —  and  forthwith  the  avenging  angel,  v\dio  has 
connived  at  all  the  lay  slaughter  for  which  the  same 
criminal  is  accountable,  stands  with  his  flaming  sword 
between  the  innocent  lovers,  and  drives  them  from  their 
common  paradise  ' 

Once  for  all:  on  this  subject  of  "self-sacrifice,"  we 
would  exhort  sentimental  and  ethical  romance  writers  to 
clear  and  purify  their  fantastic  and  flatulent  morality,  and 
substitute  healthy  strength  for  morbid  and  unnatural  ex- 
citement. The  power  of  surrendering  and  renouncing  the 
dearest  hopes  and  happiness  of  life  at  the  clear  command 
of  DUTY,  whether  that  duty  be  religious,  political,  or  linked 
with  the  affections,  is  the  divinest  of  human  faculties,  and 
its  exercise  affords  the  sublimest  spectacle  that  can  be 
witnessed  on  this  earth  ;  but  to  make  this  sacrifice  to 
family  pride,  to  the  world's  breath,  to  the  wrong  passions 
or  the  shallow  prejudices  of  others,  is  a  spurious  and  his- 
trionic counterfeit.  It  is  building  an  altar  to  a  false  god  ; 
it  is  endowing  with  your  dearest  wealth  the  shrine  of  a 
mistaken  faith  ;  it  is  enthroning  and  worshipping  a  weak- 
ness which,  however  amiable  and  unselfish,  is  a  weakness 
still.  And  when,  as  in  almost  all  these  instances  is  the 
case,  the  sacrifice  made  involves  the  happiness  of  another 
person  as  well  as  our  own,  and  entails,  as  usually  happens, 
deception  practised  on  a  third,  the  deed  becomes  a  wrong 
and  a  cruelty  as  well  as  a  mistake.  And  considering  the 
tendency,  so  prevalent  among  all  moralists  and  most  scru- 
pulous and  sincere  minds,  to  imagine  a  course  of  conduct 
to  be  especially  virtuous  simply  because  it  is  especially 
difficult  and  painful ;  and  the  probability  therefore  that 
these  heroic  sacrifices  of  ourselves  and  others  will  gener- 
ally be  made  in  those  moods  of  exaggerated  generosity 
and  feverish  enthusiasm  which  are  always  dangerous, 
often  artificial,  and  almost  inevitably  transient,  —  it  is 


104  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

especially  incumbent  on  all  who  venture  to  paint  such 
scenes  and  describe  tlie  feelin,^s  they  excite,  to  beware 
lest  they  conCuund  and  misapply  the  fundamental  prin- 
ciples ol'  duty  and  justice,  and  lead  tiiose  who  desire  to  he 
guided  by  them  to  mistake  idolatry  for  piety,  and  rush 
into  misery  at  the  dictate  of  an  unsound  and  inflated  sen- 
timent when  they  fancy  they  are  obeying  the  solemn  voice 
of  a  divine  decree.  Frequent  errors  on  this  subject  bring 
discredit  on  the  grandest  virtue  possible  to  man.  We 
ought  to  be  able  to  admire  not  only  the  courage  of  social 
martyrs,  but  tlieir  wisdom  likewise,  and  not  be  perpetual- 
ly condemned  to  the  demoralizing  task  of  lamenting  that 
the  power  of  acting  right  should  be  so  often  divorced  from 
tlie  faculty  of  seeing  straight.  That  "  diversity  of  gifts  " 
which  assigns  strong  sense  and  sagacity  to  one  man,  and 
purity  and  disinterested  purpose  to  another ;  that  appar- 
ent poverty  of  the  moral  nature,  which  seems  as  if  it 
could  not  afi'ord  to  endow  tlie  same  person  with  excel- 
lence and  with  talent,  which  makes  the  good  so  often 
feeble  in  intellect  and  the  sensible  so  often  frail  in  con- 
science, —  is  one  of  the  graA^est  trials  to  our  faith  ;  —  and 
novelists  have  done  much  to  make  it  heavier  still. 

Kathie  Branch  is  another  tale  of  injudicious  and  nn- 
kind,  because  self-considering,  self-sacrifice.  The  story  is 
one  of  uncommon  beauty,  full  of  exquisite  and  gentle  sen- 
timent simply  and  charmingly  expressed,  and  distinguished 
by  a  sustained  elevation  wholly  free  from  exaggeration. 
Kathie's  mother  is  a  widow,  in  narrow  but  not  uncomlbrt- 
able  circumstances,  with  four  or  five  children,  of  whom 
Kathie  is  the  eldest  and  most  important.  She  is  betrotlied 
to  a  sensible  and  exemplary  young  curate,  and  they  are  to 
be  married  in  the  spring.  But  her  only  brother,  Stephen, 
is  an  idle,  selfish,  and  utterly  ignoble  creature,  caring  for 
nothing  but  his  own  pleasures,  and  indifferent  to  his  I'am- 
ily,  of  which  he  is  tlie  chief  burden,  instead  of  being  its 
chief  support.  He  has  plenty  of  ability ;  but  he  has  no 
sense  of  decency,  duty,  or  affection  ;  and  he  will  not  work. 
His  mother  strains  her  slender  means  to  send  him  to  the 


FALSE  MORALITY  OF  LADY  NOVELISTS.  105 

University ;  where  lie  disgraces  himself,  incurs  debts  to 
the  amount  of  more  than  a  thousand  pounds  in  two  years, 
and  ends  by  getting  himself  expelled.  In  addition  to  this, 
he  is  mean  enough  to  sponge  upon  his  sister,  whom  he  has 
impoverislied,  to  supply  his  own  hixuries  and  fancies.  His 
family,  in  place  of  letting  him  meet  the  penalty  of  his  wick- 
edness and  cruel  folly,  and  forcing  him  to  support  himself, 
submit  to  the  greatest  privations  to  satisfy  his  creditors, 
and  allow  him,  without  a  word  of  reproach  or  exhortation, 
—  without  even  pointing  out  to  him  his  obvious  duty, 
which  he  does  not  even  think  of  seeing,  —  to  remain  idly 
and  expensively  at  home.  Here  was  the  first  moral  error : 
any  one  so  selfish,  insensible,  and  abject,  could  obviously 
be  brought  round  only  by  the  heavy  pressure  of  personal 
suffering,  and  should  have  been  forced  to  meet  his  own 
difficulties  and  atone  for  his  own  sins.  But  this  was  not 
all.  In  order  to  pay  Stephen's  debts  and  support  Stephen's 
idleness,  the  small  dowry  which  was  to  have  enaljled  Kathie 
to  marry  Felix  Mayne  had  to  be  surrendered,  and  the  mar- 
riage had  to  be  indefinitely  postponed.  Here  was  the 
second  error,  —  one  more  serious  and  patent  than  the  first. 
This  was  not  self-sacrifice  alone ;  it  was  sacrificing  the 
happiness  of  another,  who  ought  to  have  been  and  was 
dearer  than  herself,  to  her  own  views  of  what  was  right 
and  fitting.  It  was  sacrificing  a  noble  lover,  whom  she 
might  have  blessed,  to  a  wretched  brother  whom  her  gener- 
osity could  not  redeem,  but  could  only  harden  and  confirm 
in  his  evil  ways.  Still,  something  might  be  said  in  defence 
of  her  disinterested  error,  for  she  was  her  mother's  main 
stay ;  and  when  once  the  resolution  to  pay  Stephen's  debts 
had  reduced  them  to  poverty,  her  presence  at  home  could 
scarcely  have  been  dispensed  with. 

A  few  years  pass  on.  Stephen,  for  whom  so  much  had 
been  endured  and  foregone,  pursues  a  course  of  worthless- 
ness  ill-fitted  to  recompense  those  who  had  so  loved  and 
served  him  ;  Kathie  grows  thin  and  worn  with  toil,  wait- 
ing, and  soreness  of  heart ;  and  Felix  Mayne  becomes 
soured  and  saddened  by  his  loveless  and  solitary  life. 
At  last  Kathie  sees  that  it  is  wrong  and  selfish  to  retain 

5* 


106  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMEts^TS. 

a  love  wliicli  it  may  be  years  before  she  is  able  to  reward; 
so  slie  absolves  Felix  from  liis  engagement.  But  Felix 
lias  become  prosperous  and  famous.  lie  refuses  to  be  set 
free,  declares  he  has  enough  for  all,  and  urges  her  to  bring 
her  mother  to  live  with  tliem ;  for  to  this  motlicr  tlie 
family  is  now  reduced.  It  is  impossible  to  assign  any 
sober  or  valid  grounds  for  her  refusal.  But  she  does  re- 
fuse ;  given  over  to  this  distorted  notion  of  self-sacrifice, 
she  is  deaf  to  his  entreaties,  cruel  to  his  enduring  love, 
tells  him  that  her  mother  could  not  bear  dependence, 
sends  him  empty  away  ;  and  then  sinks  back  In-okeh- 
hearted  upon  her  desolate  and  darkened  life.  Kow  we 
do  not  say  that  a  woman  —  and  a  noble  and  tender- 
hearted woman,  too  —  might  not  have  acted  thus ;  but 
we  do  say  that  the  author  ought  to  have  represented  this 
refusal  as  a  deplorable  error  and  not  a  sublime  virtue,  and 
to  have  pointed  out  how  far  the  want  of  sound  judgment 
detracted  from  the  value  of  the  noble  impulse.  The  grander 
the  moral  faculty,  the  more  important  is  it  that  it  should 
be  enlisted  in  a  righteous  cause. 

Framlcigh  Hall  is  a  novel  of  much  interest  and  of 
many  faults,  but  of  great  promise  also.  It  is  evidently 
the  production  of  a  lady,  and  of  a  young  lady,  wlio  has 
read  and  thought  more  than  she  has  seen  or  felt ;  but  of 
whose  powers,  when  they  have  been  developed  and  en- 
riched by  the  experience  of  life  and  a  more  wide  and  va- 
ried knowledge  of  the  world,  we  are  inclined  to  augur 
very  higlily.  Tlie  characters  are  all  distinctly  conceived, 
and  their  individuality  is  preserved  throughout  the  tale, 
—  a  sure  sign  of  clear  thought  and  careful  workmanship. 
The  writer  is  evidently  worthy  of  guidance  and  of  warn- 
ing, and  we  feel  certain  will  take  neither  ill ;  and  there- 
fore we  have  selected  her  romance  as  an  example  of  wrong 
notions  on  a  subject  on  wdiich  it  is  peculiarly  important 
for  women  to  have  right  ones.  Her  two  heroines  —  one 
singularly  attractive,  and  the  other  singularly  excellent  — 
set  about  committing  a  great  sin  under  the  delusion  that 
they  axe  obeying  a  solemn  duty,  and  exercising  a  most 


FALSE  MORALITY  OF  LADY  NOVELISTS.  107 

virtuous  and  generous  self-denial ;  and  the  authoress 
seems  almost  wliolly  unconscious  what  an  ethical  enor- 
mity she  is  liolding  up  to  admiration. 

Grenville  is  a  young  man  of  good  property  and  consid- 
erable talents,  handsome  and  elegant  in  his  person,  and, 
when  h.e  pleases,  agreeable  in  society ;  but  without  one 
single  amiable  or  estimable  quality.  A  tyrant  at  home 
and  at  school ;  cruel,  passionate,  and  brutal  while  a  child, 
and  through  all  subsequent  stages  up  to  finished  man- 
hood ;  utterly  selfish,  and  incapable  of  affection,  tenderness, 
gratitude,  or  any  generous  and  gentlemanly  sentiment, 
though  sometimes  putting  on  an  external  varnish  of  good 
manners  ;  rude  and  even  ruffianly,  not  only  to  his  scliool- 
niates,  but  to  his  mother,  his  sister,  and  his  betrothed, — 
he  is  about  the  most  unredeemedly  bad  and  detestable 
character  ever  drawn.  Maurice  Delamere  is  just  the 
reverse  of  all  this  :  of  a  delicate,  nervous,  and  susceptible 
organization,  physically  timid,  though  morally  and  con- 
scientiously courageous  ;  refined,  cultivated,  generous,  and 
affectionate,  but  too  irresolute  to  make  his  way  in  the 
world,  and  too  shrinking  and  too  conscious  of  his  own 
defects  ever  to  do  himself  justice  in  the  eyes  of  others ; 
not  fitted  to  win  the  liearts  of  ordinary  women,  but  sure 
to  make  any  woman  happy  who  covild  understand  and 
appreciate  him,  and  sure  to  be  eternally  grateful  for  such 
appreciation  exactly  because  he  felt  it  was  what  he 
could  expect  from  few; — just  the  man  also  to  be  Gren- 
ville's  victim ;  as  accordingly  he  is,  from  infancy  to  death, 
Grenville  has  a  sister,  Isabella,  in  all  respects  his  oppo- 
site, —  somewhat  sickly  and  not  at  all  attractive,  but  a 
woman  of  strong  principles  and  warm  affections,  thor- 
oughh^  amialde  and  attached  even  to  her  brother,  though 
painfully  and  reluctantly  conscious  of  his  unworthiness, 
and  long  a  sufferer  from  his  hard  and  brutal  selfishness. 
With  her  and  her  mother  lives  the  heroine,  Eugenia,  a 
portionless  cousin,  beautiful,  vivacious,  uncultivated,  and 
untamed ;  but  with  all  a  woman's  best  instincts  native 
and  unspoiled  Avithin  her.  While  very  young,  and  inca- 
pable of  estimating  character,  she  attracted  the  fancy  of 


108  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

her  cousin  Grenville,  \vho  Avas  charmed  liy  liev  ,ii,race  and 
beauty,  and  longed  for  her  as  a  plaything  and  an  orna- 
ment ;  and,  pleased  with  his  attentions  and  ignorant  of 
liis  vice,  she  thouglitlessly  consented  to  engage  herself  to 
him.  He  entered  the  army,  and  was  some  time  absent. 
Even  when  at  home  he  paid  her  scarcely  any  attention, 
yet  exacted  from  her  the  amplest  devotion  and  incessant 
compliance  with  his  whims.  She  had  no  real  affection 
for  him,  and  began  to  weary  of  his  selfishness  ;  but  still 
continued  to  consider  herself  as  pledged  some  day  or 
other  to  become  his  wife.  Meanwhile  she  met  Maurice 
in  society,  and  gradually  grew  intimate  with  him.  His 
conversation  and  character  opened  a  new  world  to  lier. 
She  grew  to  be  conscious  of  her  want  of  culture,  and  to 
be  anxious  to  supply  the  want.  ]\Iaurice  aided  her :  not 
only  developed  and  aroused  her  dormant  sensil)ilities  of 
mind  and  spirit,  but  supplied  from  the  riches  of  his  own 
nature  the  pabulum  needed  by  the  newly  awakened  want. 
There  is  no  influence  so  profound  or  irresistible  as  that 
exercised  over  an  intellectual  woman  by  the  man  M'ho 
first  stirs  that  intellect  into  conscious  life,  and  can. lead 
it  to  the  treasures  which  it  longs  to  rifle,  and  guide  it 
through  the  flowery  and  starry  pathways  which  it  yearns 
to  tread.  Eugenia,  whose  heart  has  never  been  touched, 
becomes  unwittingly  attached  to  Maurice ;  and  Maurice, 
who  is  quite  unaware  of  her  engagement  to  his  enemy 
and  evil  genius,  loves  her  with  intensest  fervor.  She 
soon  becomes  aware  of  this  ;  and  a  visit  which  Grenville 
pays  to  his  home,  wherein  he  displays  all  the  coarseness 
and  violence  of  his  bad  and  ungovernable  nature,  makes 
her  feel  forcibly  the  contrast  of  the  two  men,  and  deter- 
mine that  she  can  never  give  herself  to  so  unbearable  a 
master. 

But  Isabella,  the  suffering  and  affectionate  sister  of  this 
domestic  wretch,  perceives  the  growing  attachment ;  and 
aware  how  fatal  it  will  be  to  her  brother's  hopes  and 
ha})piness,  sets  resolutely  to  work  to  counteract  it.  She 
laiows  that  her  brother  is  wholly  unworthy  of  a  heart 
like  Eugenia's ;  she  is  dimly,  but  refuses  to  be  clearly, 


FALSE   MORALITY   OF  LADY  NOVELISTS.  103 

conscious  that  he  will  maltreat  her  and  make  her  mis- 
erable ;  yet  still  she  believes  that  the  loss  of  his  betrothed 
will  not  only  disappoint  him  into  fury,  but  drive  him 
irretrievably  into  evil  courses :  for  though  as  incapa- 
ble of  appreciating  Eugenia  as  of  deserving  her,  he. un- 
doubtedly loves  her  with  a  passion  which  is  compounded 
of  artist  admiration  and  animal  desire.  Accordingly  Miss 
Grenville,  thougli  cognizant  of  the  true  and  faithful  mu- 
tual tenderness  of  Maurice  and  Eugenia,  forgetting  how 
sacred  such  affection  is,  determines  to  make  these  two 
wretched  that  she  may  make  one  man  imperfectly  and 
transiently  happy,  and  to  sacrifice  two  noble  and  loving 
hearts  to  the  pleasure  of  gratifying  and  the  hope  of 
redeeming  her  bad  brother.  She  will  blight  their  lives 
and  mar  their  souls  rather  than  that  he  should  lose  his 
plaything  and  his  sweetmeat.  She  persuades  and  almost 
.  compels  Eugenia  into  the  conspiracy  against  herself,  Ijy 
representing  to  her  what  she  owes  to  Grenville's  father, 
to  her  own  youthful  promise,  and  to  the  prospect  of  re- 
claiming the  irreclaimable  ;  and,  strange  to  say,  her  cousin 
yields,  to  these  wretched  arguments,  and  consents  to  aban- 
don jMaurice,  whom  she  loves,  and  to  marry  Grenville, 
whom  she  dreads,  despises,  and  is  fast  learning  to  abhor. 
Now,  according  to  our  reading  of  the  moral  law,  such 
conduct  is  foolishly  and  scandalously  wicked ;  and  no 
self-suffering  involved  in  it  can  make  it  otherwise.  To 
marry  one  man  while  loving  and  loved  by  another,  is 
about  the  most  grievous  fault  that  a  decent  woman 
can  commit.  It  is  a  sin  against  delicacy,  against  purity 
even,  against  justice,  against  kindness,  against  truth. 
It  involves  giving  that  to  legal  right  which  is  guilty,  and 
shameful  when  given  to  anything  but  reciprocal  affection. 
It  involves  a  double  treachery  and  a  double  cruelty.  It 
involves  wounding  the  spirit,  withering  the  heart,  per- 
haps blighting  the  life  and  soiling  the  soul,  of  the  one 
who  is  abandoned  and  betrayed.  It  involves  the  speedy 
disenchantment  and  the  bitter  disappointment  of  the  one 
who  is  mocked  by  the  shadow  where  he  was  promised 
tlie  substance,  and  who  grasps  only  the  phantom  of  a 


110  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

soulless  beauty,  and  the  husk,  the  shell,  the  skeleton 
of  a  dead  affection.  It  entails  ceaseless  deception,  at 
home  and  abroad,  by  day  and  nij^ht,  at  our  down-sitting 
and  our  up-rising  ;  dece])tion  in  every  relation,  —  decep- 
tion in  the  tenderest  and  most  out-s])eaking  moments  of 
existence.  It  makes  the  whole  of  life  a  weary,  diflicult. 
degrading,  unrewarded  lie.  A  right-minded  woman  could 
scarcely  lay  a  deeper  sin  upon  her  soul,  or  one  more  cer- 
tain to  bring  down  a  fearful  expiation.  For  Woman,  in 
very  truth,  this  is  the  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost,  —  ihe 
"  sin  unto  death,"  —  the  sin  which  casts  a  terrible  dark- 
ness over  both  worlds.  Yet  here  are  two  pure  and  virtu- 
ous maidens  preparing  and  persuading  to  commit  it  out 
of  mere  disinterested  tenderness ;  and  a  third  descriliing 
the  Suttee,  and,  with  apj^lauding  gestures,  though  with 
streaming  eyes,  encouraging  the  human  sacrifice. 

ISTovelists  err  grievously  and  haljitually  in  their  esti- 
mates of  the  relative  culpability  of  certain  sins,  failings, 
and  backslidings.  It  must  be  admitted  that  the  Church 
and  the  world  too  generally  err  as  grievously,  and  in  the 
same  direction.  Frailties,  which  often  indicate  nothing 
worse  than  too  much  tenderness  and  too  little  strength, 
are  spoken  of  and  treated  with  a  cruel  harshness  which 
should  be  reserved  for,  and  might  fitly  be  lavished  en,  the 
bitter,  selfish,  or  malignant  passions.  The  grasping  and 
cruel  man  is  gravely  rebuked ;  on  the  ieeble  and  erring 
woman  is  poured  forth  a  Hood  of  virtuous  indignation. 
The  weak  flesh  is  beaten  with  many  stripes ;  the  wicked 
spirit  is  gently  told  to  go  and  sin  no  more.  The  tyian- 
nical  and  selfish  temper,  that  makes  every  one  around  it 
miserable,  is  blamed  as  an  unamiable  fault ;  the  -yielding 
folly,  which  can  refuse  nothing  to  one  it  loves,  is  de- 
nounced as  an  unpardonable  sin.  Provided  a  man  is 
strictly  honest,  decorous  in  demeanor,  and  what  we  call 
"  moral,"  that  is,  not  impure,  in  conduct,  he  is  accepted 
by  the  novelist,  he  passes  current  in  the  world,  he  a])- 
pears  unrebuked  bei'ore  the  altar;  though  he  be  a  tyian- 
nical  husband  and  a  brutal  father,  though  he  be  an  abject 


FALSE  MOKALITY  OF  LADY  NO\*ELISTS.  Ill 

flatterer,  a  cold  hypocrite,  or  a  haughty  Pharisee  ;  though 
he  never  hesitates  for  an  instant  either  to  gratify  his 
own  feelings  or  to  trample  on  those  of  others.  But  pro- 
vided a  woman,  however  young,  however  ignorant  of  the 
world's  ways,  however  desolate  and  sorely  tried,  has  un- 
loosed for  one  moment  the  girdle  of  her  maiden  inno- 
cence,—  though  the  lapse  may  have  been  instantaneous, 
delirious,  instantly  repented,  and  resolutely  retrieved, — 
though  in  her  essential  nature  she  may  still  be  all  that  is 
noble,  affectionate,  devoted,  womanly,  and  unstained,  — 
she  is  punished  without  discrimination  as  the  most  sunk 
of  sinners  ;  and,  what  is  more  especially  to  our  present 
purpose,  writers  of  fiction  represent  her  as  acquiescing  in 
the  justice  of  the  sentence. 

Now  we  say  unhesitatingly  that  these  are  not  righteous, 
as  most  assuredly  they  are  not  Christian,  judgments. 
Far  be  it  from  us  to  say  one  word  calculated  to  render 
less  strong,  less  lofty,  less  thorny,  or  less  insurmountable, 
the  barrier  wliich  protects  female  chastity  in  our  land,  or 
to  palliate  untruly  that  frailty  which  is  usually  a  deplor- 
able weakness,  and  sometimes  a  heinous  sin.  Its  gravity 
cannot  easily  be  overstated  ;  and,  God  knows,  the  penalty 
exacted  is  always  most  terrifically  adequate.  But  we  do 
say  that  truth  and  justice  are  both  violated  by  those 
writers  who  persist  in  representing  sins  of  frailty  in  all 
instances  as  either  inherently  so  grave  in  their  conse- 
quences -to  happiness,  or  so  surely  indicative  of  lost  or 
absent  excellence,  —  and  therefore  calling  for  such  fierce 
denunciation,  —  as  those  sins  of  malignant  passion,  selfish 
spirit,  and  bitter  temper,  which  are  so  usually  accepted 
as  natural,  venial,  and  normal.  The  indulgence  of  the 
bad  passions  is  surely  worse  than  the  indulgence  of  the 
soft  ones  ;  though  it  is  guilty,  because  weak,  in  both  cases. 
Yielding  to  temptation  must  be  always  sinful ;  but  yield- 
ing to  wishes  not  in  themselves  nor  at  all  times  wrong, 
cannot  justly  be  condemned  so  sternly  as  yielding  to  pas- 
sions inherently  and  invariably  vicious,  mean,  or  cruel. 
In  this  direction,  at  least,  lay  the  judgment  and  the  sym- 
pathies of  Jesus,  as  the  whole  tenor  of  his  words  and 


112  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

deeds  proclaims ;  for  while  he  denounced  the  hard  and 
cruel  rulers  of  the  land,  the  grasping  lawyer  and  the 
supercilious  Pharisee,  with  an  indignation  that  was  re- 
freshingly human,  he  comforted  and  ])ardoned  the  I'rail 
wife  and  the  weeping  Magdalene  with  a  grave  tendei'ne.^s 
that  was  unmistakably  divine.  He  who  spake  as  never 
man  spake,  he  who  saw  what  few  other  men  could  see, 
knew  that,  in  the  woman  Avho  has  gone  astiay  through 
the  weakness  of  an  ill-placed  or  thirsting  affection,  there 
might  yet  lie  untouched  depths  of  purity,  self-devotion, 
and  capacity  for  the  loftiest  virtue,  Avhich  it  would  le 
vain  to  look  for  in  the  man  whose  cold  and  sellish  bosom 
no  tender  or  generous  emotion  had  ever  thawed,  or  in  the 
man  "  who  trusted  in  himself  that  he  was  righteous,  and 
despised  others." 

These  remarks  have  been  suggested  to  us  by  the  repe- 
rusal  of  a  most  beautiful  and  touching  tale,  wherein  the 
erroneous  moral  estimate  we  are  signalizing  appears  in  a 
very  mild  form ;  and  which,  indeed,  woidd  appear  to  have 
been  written  with  the  design  of  modifying  and  correcting 
it,  though  the  author's  ideas  were  not  quite  clear  or  posi- 
tive enough  to  enable  her  to  carry  out  boldly  or  develop 
fully  the  conception  she  had  formed.  •  Mrs.  Gaskell's 
novel  of  Ruth  is  too  well  known  to  lay  us  under  the 
necessity  of  narrating  the  story  in  detail.  Paith,  innocent 
and  beautiful,  left  an  orphan  and  without  connections,  is 
turned  out  of  doors  at  sixteen  by  a  harsh  and  hasty 
mistress,  in  whose  establishment  she  had  been  placed  to 
learn  dress-making  ;  and  not  knowing  whither  to  turn  in 
her  despair,  is  persuaded  by  a  gentleman,  who  had  already 
half  engaged  her  youthful  fancy,  to  accept  shelter  and 
assistance  from  him.  She  goes  astray,  scarcely,  if  at  all, 
knowino-  that  she  is  doing  wrono',  but  from  a  <:entleness 
of  nature  that  never  dreams  of  resisting  the  influence  or 
the  persuasions  of  those  she  loves.  After  a  while  her 
lover  deserts  her ;  and  the  remarks  and  behavior  of  tlie 
Avorld,  and  the  teachings  of  an  excellent  dissenting  minis- 
ter and  his  sister,  awaken  her  to  a  perception  of  the  error 
she  has  committed  and  the  liuht  in  which  that  error  is 


FALSS  MORALITY  OF   LADY  NOVELISTS.  113 

regarded.  The  process  by  which  her  character  is  purified 
and  elevated,  and  her  fault  redeemed,  through  the  influ- 
ence of  ]\Ir.  Benson  and  her  passionate  attachment  to  her 
child,  is  described  with  a  fidelity  to  the  deeper  and  truer 
secrets  of  our  nature  which  is  as  beautiful  as  it  is  unique. 
Among  the  members  of  j\Ir.  Benson's  congregation  is  a 
wealthy  and  influential  merchant,  ^Mr.  Bradshaw,  —  the 
very  distilled  essence  of  a  disagreeable  Pliarisee  ;  osten- 
tatious, patronizing,  self-confident,  and  self-worshipping ; 
rigidly  righteous  according  to  his  own  notion,  but  in  our 
eyes  a  heinous  and  habitual  offender ;  a  harsh  and  oppres- 
sive tyrant  in  his  own  family  without  perceiving  it,  or 
rather  without  admitting  that  his  harshness  and  oppres- 
sion is  other  than  a  sublime  virtue ;  yet  driving  by  it  one 
child  into  rebellion  and  another  into  hypocrisy  and  crime, 
and  arousing  the  angry  passions  of  every  one  with  whom 
he  comes  in  contact ;  having  no  notion  of  what  tempta- 
tion is,  either  as  a  thing  to  be  resisted  or  succumbed  to, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  all  his  temptations,  which  are 
those  of  pride,  selfishness,  and  temper,  are  yielded  to 
and  defended  as  virtuous  impulses  ;  prone  to  trample,  and 
ignorant  of  the  very  meaning  of  tenderness  and  mercy. 
This  man,  reeking  with  the  sins  Christ  most  abhorred, 
turns  upon  the  unhappy  Euth  (who,  after  six  years  of 
exemplary  life,  has  become  a  governess  in  his  house),  as 
soon  as  he  accidentally  learns  her  history,  with  a  brutal, 
savage  violence  and  a  coarse,  unfeeling  cruelty,  which  we 
need  not  scruple  to  affirm  constituted  a  far  greater  sin 
than  poor  Euth  had  committed,  or  would  have  commit- 
ted had  her  lapse  from  chastity  been  wilful  and  persist- 
ent instead  of  unconscious,  transient,  and  bitterly  and 
nobly  atoned  for.  Something  of  this  very  conviction  was 
evidently  in  Mrs.  Gaskell's  mind ;  and  we  can  scarcely 
doubt  that  she  placed  Mr.  Bradshaw's  hard  and  aggressive 
Pharisaism  in  such  strong  relief  and  contrast  by  way  of 
insinuating  the  comparative  moral  we  have  boldly  stated. 
In  any  case,  such  is  the  resulting  impression  which  must 
be  left  upon  the  reader's  mind.  But  what  we  object  to 
in  her  book  is  this  :  that  the  tone  and  lancuase  habitually 


114  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

adopted  throughout,  both  by  Ruth  herself  and  by  her 
friends  when  ulhiding  to  lier  fault,  is  at  war  with  this 
impression  and  with  the  true  tenor  of  the  facts  recorded. 
Mrs.  Gaskell  scarcely  seems  at  one  with  lierself  in  tliis 
matter.  Anxious  above  all  things  to  arouse  a  kinder 
feeling  in  the  uncharitable  and  bitter  world  towards  of- 
fenders of  Euth's  sort,  to  show  how  thoughtless  and 
almost  unconscious  such  offences  sometimes  are,  and  how 
slightly,  after  all,  they  may  affect  real  purity  of  nature 
and  piety  of  spirit,  and  liow  truly  they  may  be  redeemed 
when  treated  with  wisdom  and  with  gentleness,  —  she 
has  first  imagined  a  character  as  pure,  pious,  and  unselfish 
as  poet  ever  fancied,  and  described  a  lapse  from  chastity 
as  faultless  as  such  a  fault  can  be ;  and  then,  with  dam- 
aging and  unfaithful  inconsistency,  has  given  in  to  the 
world's  estimate  in  such  matters,  by  assuming  that  the 
sin  committed  was  of  so  deep  a  dye  that  only  a  life  of 
atoning  and  enduring  penitence  could  wipe  it  out.  If 
she  designed  to  awaken  the  world's  compassion  for  the 
ordinary  class  of  betrayed  and  deserted  Magdalenes,  the 
circumstances  of  Piuth's  error  should  not  have  been  made 
so  innocent,  nor  should  Euth  herself  have  been  painted 
as  so  perfect.  If  she  intended  to  describe  a  saint  (as  she 
has  done),  she  should  not  have  held  conventional  and 
mysterious  language  about  her  as  a  grievous  sinner. 

We  have  more  to  say  upon  this  subject,  for  it  is  a  M-ide 
and  a  very  grave  one  ;  but  our  space  is  exhausted,  and  we 
have  probably  drawn  as  largely  as  is  wise  upon  our 
reader's  attention.  But  the  faulty  religion,  which  dis- 
figures modern  novels  nearly  as  much  as  false  morality, 
may  perhaps  tempt  us  to  take  up  the  subject  once  more 
on  some  other  occasion. 


KIN"GSLEY  AND  CAELYLE. 

THERE  are  two  living  English  writers  who,  wide  as 
the  poles  asunder  in  many  points,  have  yet  several 
marked  characteristics  in  common,  and  whom  we  confess 
to  regarding  with  very  similar  sentiments,  —  Mr.  Carlyle 
and  Mr.  Kingsley.  Both  are  eminent ;  botli  are  popular ; 
both  have  exercised,  and  are  still  exercising,  a  very 
imquestionable  influence  over  their  contempoi-aries :  un- 
questionable, tliat  is,  as  to  degree  ;  questionable  enougli, 
unhappily,  as  to  kind.  Of  botli  we  have  frequently  liad 
occasion  to  speak  with  respect  and  admiration.  We  read 
them  much,  and  recur  to  tliem  often ;  but  seldom  with- 
out mixed  feelings,  provocation,  disappointment,  and  re- 
gret. We  constantly  lay  them  down  outraged  beyond 
endurance  by  their  faults,  and  mentally  forswearing  them 
in  future ;  we  as  constantly  take  them  up  again  in  spite 
of  vow  and  protest,  drawn  back  into  the  turbid  vortex 
by  the  force  of  their  resistless  fascinations.  In  short, 
we  feel  and  act  towards  them  as  men  may  do  towards 
women  whom  they  at  once  delight  in,  admire,  and  con- 
demn ;  who  perpetually  offend  their  purer  taste  and  grate 
against  their  finer  sensibilities,  but  whose  noble  qualities 
and  whose  meretricious  charms  are  so  strangely  vivid  and 
so  marvellously  blended,  that  they  can  shake  themselves 
free  from  neither.  For  Mr.  Kingsley  we  have  long  ago 
expressed  our  hearty  appreciation  ;  but  there  is  a  time  to 
appreciate,  and  a  time  to  criticize.  Standing  as  he  now 
does*  at  the  zenith  of  his  popularity,  it  is  the  fit  time  to 

•  I860. 


110  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

spnak  of  his  shortcomin;,'^  with  that  frankness  Avhich  is 
the  truest  respect. 

The  historian  of  Frrdcrich  the  Great  and  the  author  of 
llijpiitiii  have  many  ])oints  of  resemblance,  hut  always 
with  a  variation.  Tliey  are  cast  in  the  same  mouhl,  hut 
i'asliioned  of  dilferent  clays  and  animated  by  different 
spirits.  Both  are  terribly  in  earnest ;  but  Kingsley's  is 
the  earnestness  of  youthful  vigor  and  a  sanguine  temper, 
C'arlyle's  is  the  profound  cynicism  of  a  bitter  and  a  gloomy 
spirit.  He  is,  if  not  the  saddest,  assuredly  the  most  sad- 
dening of  writers,  —  the  very  Apostle  of  Despair.  Both 
seem  penetrated  to  the  very  core  of  their  nature  with  the 
sharpest  sense  of  the  wrongs  and  sufferings  of  humanity; 
but  the  one  is  thereby  driven  to  preach  a  crusade  of  ven- 
geance on  their  authors,  the  other  a  crusade  of  rescue  and 
deliverance  for  their  victims.  ^Ir.  Kingsley's  earnest- 
ness as  a  social  philosopher  and  reformer  develops  itself 
mainly  in  the  direction  of  action  and  of  sympathy ;  Mr. 
Carlyle's  exliales  itself,  for  the  most  part,  in  a  fierce  con- 
tempt against  folly  and  weakness,  which  is  always  un- 
measured and  sometimes  unchristian.  The  earnestness 
of  Carlyle,  though  savagely  sincere,  never  condescends 
enough  to  detail  or  to  knowledge  to  make  him  a  practi- 
cal reformer ;  that  of  Kingsley  is  so  restless  as  to  allow 
liim  no  repose,  and  sends  him  rushing,  tete  haiss^e,  at 
every  visible  evil  or  abuse.  The  one  has  stirred  thou- 
sands to  bitterest  discontent  with  existing  evils  and  social 
wrongs,  but  scarcely  erected  a  finger-post  or  supplied  a 
motive  ;  the  other  has  roused  numbers  to  buckle  on  their 
armor  in  a  holy  cause,  but  has  often  directed  them  astray, 
and  has  not  always  been  careful  either  as  to  banner  or  to 
watchword. 

Both  are  fearfully  pugnacious  ;  indeed,  they  are  beyond 
comparison  the  two  most  combative  writers  of  their  age. 
Nature  sent  them  into  the  world  full  of  aggressive  pro- 
pensities ;  and  strong  principles,  warm  hearts,  and  expan- 
sive sympathies  have  enlisted  these  propensities  on  the 
side  of  benevolence  and  virtue.  Happier  than  many, 
they  have  been  able  to  indulge  their  passions  in  the  cau  :e 


KINGSLEY   AND  CARLYLE.  117 

of  right.  But  their  success  or  good  fortune  in  doing  this 
has  led  them  into  tlie  delusion  common  in  such  cases. 
They  fancy  that  the  cause  consecrates  the  passion.  They 
feel 

"We  have  come  forth  upon  the  field  of  life 
To  war  with  Evil"  ; 

and  once  satisfied  that  it  is  evil  against  M'hich  they  are 
contending,  they  let  themselves  go,  and  give  full  swing 
to  all  tlie  vehemence  of  their  imregenerate  natures.  We 
comprehend  the  full  charms  of  such  a  tilt.  It  must  be 
deliglitful  to  array  all  the  energies  of  the  old  Adam 
against  the  foes  of  the  new.  What  unspeakable  relief 
and  joy  for  a  Christian  like  ]\Ir.  Kingsley,  wdiom  God 
has  made  boiling  over  with  animal  eagerness  and  fierce 
aggressive  instincts,  to  feel  that  he  is  not  called  upon  to 
control  these  instincts,  but  only  to  direct  them ;  and  that 
once  having,  or  fancying  that  he  has,  in  view  a  man  or 
an  institution  that  is  God's  enemy  as  well  as  his,  he  may 
hate  it  with  a  perfect  hatred,  and  go  at  it  en  sahreur ! 
Accordingly  he  reminds  us  of  nothing  so  much  as  of  a 
war-horse  panting  for  the  battle  ;  his  usual  style  is  mar- 
vellously like  a  neigh,  —  a  "ha!  ha!  among  the  trum- 
pets ! "  the  dust  of  the  combat  is  to  him  the  breath  of 
life  ;  and  when  once,  in  the  plenitude  of  grace  and  faith, 
fairly  let  loose  upon  his  prey  —  human,  moral,  or  mate- 
rial —  all  the  Red  Indian  Avithin  liim  comes  to  the  sur- 
face, and  he  wields  his  tomahawk  with  an  unbaptized 
heartiness,  slightly  heathenish,  no  doubt,  but  withal  un- 
speakably refresliing.  It  is  amazing  how  hard  one  who 
is  a  gladiator  by  nature  strikes  when  convinced  that  he 
is  doing  God  service.  Mr.  Kingsley  is  a  strange  mixture 
of  the  spirit  of  the  two  covenants.  He  draws  his  sym- 
pathy with  liuman  wrongs  mainly  from  tlie  Xew  Testa- 
ment ;  but  his  mode  of  dealing  M'ith  human  wrong-doers 
altogether  from  the  Old.  Mr.  Carlyle  borrows  little  from 
either  division  of  the  Bible;  his  onslaufjhts  are  like  those 
of  one  of  the  Northern  gods ;  he  wields  Thor's  hammer 
righteously  in  the  main,  but  with  a  grim  and  terrible 
ferocity,  and  often  mangles  his  victims  as  thougli  abso- 
lutely intoxicated  by  the  taste  of  blood. 


118  LITERARY   AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

Both  writers — and  this  is  one  of  their  most  serious 
offences  —  are  contenijituous  and  abusive  towards  their 
adversaries  far  beyond  the  limits  of  taste,  decency,  or 
gentlemanly  usage.  Both  indulge  in  terms  of  scorn  and 
vituperation  sucli  as  no  cause  can  justify  and  no  correct 
or  Christian  feeling  could  inspire.  Their  pages  often 
read  like  the  ])arngrai)hs  in  the  Commination  Service. 
Their  holy  wrath  is  poured  out,  as  from  teeming  and 
exhaustless  fountains,  on  everything  they  disapprove, 
and  on  every  one  who  ventures  to  differ  from  them  or 
to  argue  with  them.  Since  the  days  of  Dean  Swift  and 
Johnson  there  have  been  no  such  offenders  among  the 
literary  men  of  England.  Still,  even  here,  there  is  a 
difference  ;  Mr.  Carlyle  slangs  like  a  blaspheming  pagan; 
Mr.  Kingsley  like  a  denouncing  prophet. 

Mingled,  too,  with  this  unseemly  fury,  and  piercing 
through  all  their  unmeasured  and  lacerating  language, 
there  is  discernible  in  both  men  a  rich  vein  of  beautiful 
and  pathetic  tenderness.  This  is  most  marked  in  Mr. 
Carlyle,  as  might  be  expected  from  his  far  deeper  nature  ; 
and  if  considered  in  connection  with  the  irritations  of 
an  uncomfortable  and  nervous  organization,  goes  far  to 
explain,  if  not  to  excuse,  his  outrageous  ferocity  of  utter- 
ance. It  is  as  though,  like  the  prophet  of  old,  "  he  was 
mad  for  the  sight  of  his  eyes  which  he  saw."  Gloomy 
and  phrenetic  by  temperament ;  full  of  enthusiasm  for 
what  is  noble ;  keen  in  his  perce])tions  of  what  ought  to 
be  and  might  be  ;  bitterly  conscious  of  the  contrast  with 
what  is ;  sympatliizing  with  almost  painful  vividness  in 
the  sufferings  of  the  unhappy  and  the  wronged,  but  per- 
versely showing  that  sympathy  rather  by  contemy)tuous 
anger  than  by  relieving  gentleness  ;  richly  endowed  with 
warm  human  affections,  which  yet  he  is  half  ashamed 
of,  and  would  fain  conceal ;  little  accustomed  to  control 
himself,  and  never  taught  to  respect  others,  —  his  spirit 
is  in  a  perpetual  state  both  of  internecine  and  of  foreign 
■war ;  and  his  tenderness,  instead  of  being  like  oil  upon 
the  troubled  waters,  seems  to  be  only  one  more  incon- 
gruous and  fermenting  element  cast  into  the  seething 


KINGSLEY  AND   CARLYLE.  119 

caldron.  But  whenever  he  Avill  let  it  baam  out  un- 
checked, it  not  only  spreads  a  rare  sunshine  over  his 
pages,  but  communicates  at  once  elevation  and  sobriety 
of  tone.  It  is  this  which  makes  his  Life  of  Sterling 
far  the  most  pleasant  as  well  as  one  of  the  truest  of  his 
books. 

]\ir.  Ivingsley's  tenderness  is  of  a  diiferent  order.  Like 
all  his  excellences  and  defects,  it  springs  from  his  physi- 
cal temperament ;  and  is  therefore  manly,  prompt,  and 
genuine,  but  not  profound.  Indeed,  we  think  the  special 
peculiarity  of  ]\Ir.  Kingsley's  nature,  as  of  his  genius,  is 
that  it  wants  depth.  It  is  as  sound  as  a  bell,  thoroughly 
healthy,  indescribably  vigorous ;  but,  if  we  must  speak 
our  thought,  a  little  superlicial.  Perhaps  it  is  too  healthy 
to  be  deep.  Still  it  is  very  pleasant,  because  so  bub- 
bling, lively,  and  sincere.  We  will  quote  one  passage  in 
illustration:  it  is  rather  long;  but,  as  we  do  not  intend 
to  quote  much,  and  as  it  is  in  his  best  manner,  we  will 
transfer  it  to  our  pages. 

"Was  there  no  poetry  in  these  Puritans,  because  they 
wrote  no  poetry  1  We  do  not  mean  now  the  unwritten  trage- 
dy of  the  battle-psalm  and  the  charge  ;  but  simple  idyllic  poe- 
try and  quiet  house-drama,  love-poetry  of  the  heart  and 
hearth,  and  the  beauties  of  every-day  human  life.  Take  tlie 
most  commonplace  of  them  :  was  Zeal-for-Truth  Thoresby,  of 
Thoresby  Rise  in  Deeping  Fen,  because  his  father  had 
thought  fit  to  give  him  an  ugly  and  silly  name,  the  less  of  a 
noble  lad  ?  Did  his  name  prevent  his  being  six  feet  high  1 
Were  his  shoulders  the  less  broad  for  it ;  his  cheeks  the  less 
ruddy  for  it  ]  He  wore  his  flaxen  hair  of  the  same  length 
that  every  one  now  wears  theirs,  instead  of  letting  it  hang 
half-way  to  his  waist  in  essenced  curls ;  but  was  he  there- 
fore the  less  of  a  true  Viking's  son,  bold-hearted  as  his  sea- 
roving  ancestors,  who  won  the  Danelagh  by  Canute's  side,  an  I 
settled  there  ou  Thoresby  Rise,  to  grow  wheat  and  bree  I 
horses,  generation  succeeding  generation,  in  the  old  moated 
grange]  He  carried  a  Bible  in  his  jack-boot ;  but  did  that 
prevent  him,  as  Oliver  rode  past  him  with  an  approving 
smile  ou  Naseby  field,  thinking  himself  a  very  handsome  fel- 
low, with  his    mustache  and  imperial,  and  bright  red  coat, 


120  LITEllAllY  AND  KOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

and  cuirass  well  polished,  in  spite  of  many  a  dint,  as  he  sat 
his  father's  great  hlack  horse  as  gracefully  and  firmly  as  any 
long-locked  and  csscnccd  cavalier  in  front  of  him  ]  Or  did 
it  ])revcnt  him  thinking,  too,  for  a  moment,  with  a  throb  of 
the  heart,  that  sweet  Cousin  Patience  far  away  at  home,  could 
she  but  see  him,  might  have  the  same  opinion  of  him  as  he 
had  of  himself?  Was  he  the  worse  for  the  thought?  Pie 
was  certainly  not  the  worse  for  checking  it  the  next  instant, 
with  manly  shame  for  letting  such  '  carnal  vanities  '  rise  in 
his  heart  while  he  was  'doing  the  Lord's  work'  in  the  teeth 
of  death  and  hell :  but  was  there  no  poetry  in  him  then  'i 
No  poetry  in  him,  five  minutes  after,  as  the  long  rapier 
swung  round  his  head,  redder  and  redder  at  every  sweep] 
We  are  befooled  by  names.  Call  him  Crnsader  instead  of 
Roundhead,  and  he  seems  at  once  (granting  him  only  sinceri- 
ty, which  he  had,  and  that  of  a  right  awful  kind)  as  complete 
a  knight-errant  as  ever  svatched  and  prayed,  ere  putting  on 
his  spurs,  in  fantastic  Gothic  chapel,  beneath  'storied  win- 
dows richly  dight.'  Was  there  no  poetry  in  him,  either,  half 
an  hour  afterwards,  as  he  lay  bleeding  across  the  coi'pse  of 
the  gallant  horse,  waiting  for  his  tnni  with  the  surgeon,  and 
fumbled  for  the  Bible  in  his  boot,  and  tried  to  hum  a  psalm, 
and  thought  of  Cousin  Patience,  and  his  father  and  his  moth- 
er ;  and  how  they  would  hear,  at  least,  that  he  had  pla^-ed 
the  man  in  Israel  that  day,  and  resisted  unto  blood,  striving 
against  sin  and  the  Man  of  Sin  ]  And  was  there  no  poetry 
in  him,  too,  as  he  came  wearied  along  Thoresby  dike,  m  the 
quiet  autumn  eve,  home  to  the  honse  of  his  forefathers,  and 
saw  afar  otf  the  knot  of  tall  poplars  rising  over  the  broad 
misty  flat,  and  the  one  great  Abele  tossing  its  sheets  of  silver 
in  the  dying  gusts,  and  knew  that  they  stood  before  his 
father's  door  1  Who  can  tell  all  the  pretty  child-memories 
which  flitted  across  his  brain  at  that  sight,  and  made  him  for- 
get that  he  was  a  wounded  cripple  ]  .  .  .  .  And  now  he  was 
going  home  to  meet  her  (Patience)  after  a  mighty  victorv,  a 
deliverance  from  Heaven,  second  only  in  his  eyes  to  that  Tied 
Sea  one.  Was  there  no  poetry  in  his  heart  at  that  thought  1 
Did  not  the  glowing  sr.nhet,  and  the  reed-beds  which  it  trans- 
figured before  him  into  sheets  of  golden  flame,  seem  tokens 
that  the  glory  of  Gud  was  going  before  him  in  his  path  1 
Did  not  the  sweet  clamor  of  the  wild-fowl,  gathering  for  one 
rich  p»an  ere  they  sank  into  rest,  seem  to  him  as  God's  bells 


KINGSLEY  AND  CARLYLE.      ■  121 

chiming  him  home  in  triumph  with  peals  sweeter  and  bolder 
than  tliose  of  Lincoln  or  Peterborough  steeple-house  ]  Did 
not  the  very  lapwing,  as  she  tumbled  softly  wailing  before  his 
path,  as  she  did  years  ago,  seem  to  welcome  the  wanderer 
home  in  the  name  of  Heaven  ? 

"  Fair  Patience,  too,  though  she  was  a  Puritan,  yet  did  not 
her  cheek  flush,  her  eye  grow  dim,  like  any  other  girl's,  as  she 
saw  far  off  the  red  coat,  like  a  sliding  spark  of  fire,  coming 
slowly  along  the  strait  fen-bank,  and  fled  up  stairs  into  her 
chamber  to  pi*ay,  half  that  it  might  be,  half  that  it  might 
not  be  he  ]  Was  there  no  happy  storm  of  human  ears  and 
human  laughter  when  he  entered  the  court-yard  gate  ?  Did 
not  the  old  dog  lick  his  Puritan  hand  as  lovingly  as  if  it  had 
been  a  Cavalier's]  Did  not  lads  and  lasses  run  out  shouting'? 
Did  not  the  old  yeoman  father  hug  him,  weep  over  him,  hold 
him  at  arm's  length,  and  hug  him  again  as  heartily  as  any 
other  John  Bull,  even  though  the  next  moment  he  called  all 
to  kneel  down  and  thank  Him  who  had  sent  his  boy  home 
again,  after  bestowing  on  him  the  grace  to  bind  kings  in 
chains,  and  nobles  with  links  of  iron,  and  contend  to  death 
for  the  fliith  delivered  to  the  saints  1  And  did  not  Zeal-for- 
Truth  look  about  as  wistfully  for  Patience  as  any  other  man 
■would  have  done,  longing  to  see  her,  yet  not  daring  even  to 
ask  for  her  1  And  when  she  came  down  at  last,  was  she  the 
less  lovely  in  his  eyes  because  she  came,  not  flaunting  with 
bare  bosom,  in  tawdry  finery  and  paint,  but  shrouded  close  in 
coif  and  pinner,  hiding  from  all  the  world  beauty  which  was 
there  still,  but  was  meant  for  one  alone,  and  that  only  if  God 
willed,  in  God's  good  time  ]  And  was  there  no  faltering  of 
their  voices,  no  light  in  their  eyes,  no  trembling  pressure 
of  their  hands,  which  said  more  and  was  more,  ay  and  more 
beautiful  in  the  sight  of  Him  who  made  them,  than  all  Her- 
rick's  Dianemes,  Wallers  Saccharissas,  flames,  darts,  posies, 
love-knots,  anagrams,  and  the  rest  of  the  insincere  cant  of  the 
court"?  What  if  Zeal-for-Truth  had  never  strung  two  rhymes 
together  in  his  life  1  Did  not  his  heart  go  for  inspiration  to 
a  loftier  Helicon,  when  it  whispered  to  itself,  '  My  love,  my 
dove,  my  undefiled,  is  but  one,'  than  if  he  had  filled  pages 
with  sonnets  about  Venuses  and  Cupids,  love-sick  shepherds 
and  cruel  nymphs  ] 

"  And  was  there  no  poetry,  true  idyllic  poetry,  as  of  Long- 
fellow's Evangeline  itself,  in  that  trip  round  the  old  farm  next 
6 


122  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

morning,  when  Zeal-for-Truth,  after  looking  over  every  heifer, 
and  peeping  into  every  sty,  would  needs  canter  down  hy  liis  fa- 
ther's side  to  the  horse-fen,  with  his  arm  in  a  sling ;  while  the 
partridges  whirred  before  them,  and  the  lurchers  flashed 
like  gray  snakes  after  the  hare,  and  the  colts  came  whinnying 
round  with  staring  eyes  and  streaming  manes  ;  and  the  two 
chatted  on  in  the  same  sober  business-like  English  tone,  alter- 
nately of  '  the  Lord's  great  dealings '  by  General  Cromwell, 
the  pride  of  all  honest  fen-men,  and  the  price  of  troop-horses 
at  the  next  Horncastle  fair  ] 

"  Poetry  in  those  old  Puritans  1  Why  not  1  They  were 
men  of  like  passions  with  ourselves.  They  loved,  they  mar- 
ried, they  brought  up  children  ;  they  feared,  they  sinned, 
they  sorrowed,  they  fought,  they  conquered.  There  was  po- 
etry enough  in  them,  be  sure,  though  they  acted  it  like  men 
instead  of  singing  it  like  birds." 

Again,  both  men  are  heartily  and  instinctively  relig- 
ions ;  yet  both  incessantly  grate  against  the  religious 
feelings  of  reverent  Christians,  though  in  a  different 
manner,  and  from  different  causes.  The  one  is  full  of  rev- 
erence, but  has  no  fixed  or  definite  belief ;  the  other  is 
orthodox  enough  in  doctrine,  but  does  not  know  what 
reverence  means.  The  one  has  no  creed  ;  the  other  has  no 
doubt.  Mr.  Carlyle  — as  all  deep  and  great  spirits  must 
—  approaches  the  high  mysteries  of  the  Infinite  and  the 
Eternal  with  aM^e  unspeakable,  and  almost  with  humility. 
He  dares  not  even  define  the  Illimitable  Agencies ;  he  al- 
ways speaks  of  them  in  the  plural  number.  You  cannot 
tell  what  he  means  precisely  when  he  whispers  of  the  Si- 
lences and  the  Immensities,  —  probably  he  could  not  tell 
himself ;  but  there  is  no  mistaking  the  natural  tone  and 
sentiment  with  which  man  refers  to  something  su- 
premely and  incomprehensibly  above  him.  There  may 
be  no  distinct  Being  for  whom  this  awe  is  felt,  but  tJie 
awe  is  unquestionably  there.  In  Mr.  Kingsley  there  is 
nothing  of  all  this.  The  great  creative  and  pervading 
Spirit  of  the  universe,  who  for  Mr.  Carlyle  is  r^tre  Su- 
preme, for  Mr.  Kingsley  is  simply  le  hoii  Dieu.  He  is 
not  a  stricken  mortal,  prostrate  before  the  Ineffable  In- 
telligence, l^ut  a  workman  of  God,  a  soldier  of  Christ,  a 


KINGSLEY   AND  CARLYLE.  123 

messenger  who  has  got  his  orders  from  his  immediate  su- 
perior, and  will  execute  them  like  a  faithful  laborer.  He 
knows  God's  will,  and  it  always  harmonizes  strangely 
with  Mr.  Kingsley's  objects  and  opinions.  He  has  an  un- 
questioning obedience,  cheerful  service,  boundless  devo- 
tion, to  his  Father  who  is  in  heaven ;  but  of  what  we 
call  reverence, —  hushed  and  breathless  adoration,  solemn 
sense  of  infinite  depth  and  infinite  littleness, —  we  can 
perceive  no  trace  whatever.  He  seems  as  unconscious  as 
the  infant  Samuel  of  a  superior  Presence.  His  feelings 
towards  God  appear  to  hover  between  those  of  the  negro 
and  the  Israelite,  or  rather  to  partake  of  both.  He  speaks 
of  him,  and  to  him,  with  the  simple  directness,  the  con- 
fiding but  not  disrespectful  familiarity,  now  of  Moses  and 
now  of  Uncle  Tom.  When  he  issues  his  commands  to 
the  world  of  sinners,  it  is  as  though  he  had  just  come 
from  an  interview  with  the  Most  High  on  Sinai.  "When 
he  prays,  it  is  (to  use  Mrs.  Stowe's  language)  as  though  he 
knew  God  was  listening  behind  the  curtain.  He  is  un- 
pleasantly fond  of  introducing  the  Great  Xame  on  all 
occasions :  it  is  always  "  God's  work,"  "  God's  feasts," 
"  God's  heroes,"  "  God's  bells,"  "  Good  news  of  God  "  ;  ex- 
pressions which,  just  and  fitting  enough  when  sparingly, 
solemnly,  and  appropriately  used,  produce  almost  a  pro- 
fane effect  by  their  incessant  and  uncalled-for  recurrence ; 
appear  to  be  dictated  chiefly  by  an  appetite  for  strong 
language  operating  on  a  gentleman  in  orders  ;  and  are,  in 
fact,  we  believe,  Mr.  Kingsley's  way  of  swearing. 

There  are  further  points  of  resemblance  between  tlie 
two  men  still.  Eoaming  through  our  world  of  compli- 
cated and  corrupt  civilization,  laying  about  them  with  an 
iron  flail,  and  smashing  shams,  follies,  and  abuses  M'ith 
little  mercy  and  less  discrimination,  they  have  yet  both 
their  weak  places  and  their  blind  sides.  Iconoclasts  as 
they  are,  they  are  idolaters  also,  —  and  idolaters  of  the 
worst  sort,  and  at  tlie  coarsest  shrine.  These  teachers  of 
mankind  in  an  age  of  advanced  science  and  refinement, 
trained  in  the  highest  culture,  rich  in  the  noblest  endow- 
ments,— 

"  These,  the  heirs  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  liles  of  time,"  — 


12i  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 


Morship  imich  as  the  barLarians  of  old  did,  and  much  as 
tlu!  sava^^cs  do  now,  and  lull  ]»rostrate  before  brute  Force 
and  a  tyrannous  and.  unrelenting  Will.  They  arc  "  Ti- 
tanolaters,"  as  Archdeacon  Hare  appropriately  named 
them.  Mr.  Carlyle  raves  about  "Jarls"and  "Vikings," 
and  the  "  grand  old  Norsemen,"  till  we  are  sick  of  the 
recurring  cant;  and  Mr.  Kingsley  echoes  his  precise 
phrases  and  expressions,  page  after  page,  with  an  almost 
l)arrot-like  exactitude  of  iteration.  This  idolatry  of  mere 
strength,  however,  assumes  distinct  forms  in  the  two 
writers  ;  and,  strange  to  say,  it  takes  a  somewhat  higher 
type  in  the  Pagan  than  in  the  Christian  votary.  The  one 
idolizes  chiefly  strength  of  purpose,'  the  other  chiefly 
strength  of  muscle  and  of  nerve.  Both  probably  have 
"  gone  in  "  for  their  own  especial  line  of  superiority.  ^Mr. 
Carlyle — never  strong  in  health  or  agile  in  frame,  nor 
trained  either  as  ploughman,  sportsman,  soldier,  or  athlete, 
but  having  had  to  fight  his  way  in  life  with  a  persistent 
energy  and  a  self-denying  power  which  do  him  infinite 
honor  —  thinks  little  of  mere  bodily  strength,  and,  indeed, 
seldom  speaks  of  the  animal  fraiiie  at  all,  but  feels  an 
irresistible  attraction  towards  inflexible  tempers  and  over- 
mastering volitions.  Indeed,  he  is  essentially  and  con- 
sistently a  despot ;  and  with  all  despots,  if  only  they  be 
relentless  and  inconsiderate  enough,  he  has  a  prompt  and 
abounding  sympathy.  If  they  be  utterly  brutal  in  addi- 
tion, there  are  no  limits  to  his  admiration.  His  heart 
yearns  to  them,  and  leaps  up  to  meet  them  as  to  a  brother. 
He  calls  them  "  men,"  "  true  men,"  "  types  of  real  man- 
hood." No  one  acquainted  with  jMr.  Carl}le's  v.ritiiigs 
will,  we  are  sure,  charge  us  with  one  shade  of  exaggera- 
tion. Every  book,  and  almost  every  page,  will  witness 
for  us.  The  fierce  rough  Danton  was  among  his  earliest 
idols,  bloody  and  ignorant  as  he  was,  because  he  wa^3 
simple  and  earnest,  kncNV  what  he  wanted  (or  thought  he 
did),  and  went  \\'ith  Juggernaut  directness  and  reckless- 
ness to  his  end.  Samuel  Johnson  too  —  noble  old  bear 
that  he  was  —  Mr.  Carlyle  really  loves  for  his  unendur- 
able brutality.     But  it  was  not  till  he  met  Mith  Freder- 


KINGSLEY  AND  CARLYLE.  125 

ick  William  of  Prussia,  —  probably  the  most  truculent 
ruffian  that  ever  sat  upon  a  modern  throne  ;  an  absolute 
savage  in  taste  and  temper ;  often  half  mad,  and  con- 
stantly quite  drunk ;  forever  and  in  every  relation  of 
life  trampling  upon  justice,  decency,  kindness,  and  nat- 
ural affection,  —  that  Mr.  Carlyle  recognized  the  "  real- 
ized ideal  "  of  his  fancy,  and  hugged  the  "just  man  made 
perfect "  to  his  heart  of  hearts. 

But  ]\Ir.  Carlyle  not  only  worships  "  forcible  "  men  ;  he 
would  apply  force  —  physical  force  —  to  all  recalcitrants  ; 
he  would  govern  the  world  by  force.  The  wise  and  power- 
ful must  rule ;  the  ignorant  and  foolish  must  submit. 
The  scourge  and  the  sword  must  carry  out  the  dicta  which 
Mr.  Carlyle  sees  to  be  good.  The  negro  must  be  flogged 
into  sugar-making  ;  the  wandering  and  misguided  multi- 
tudes of  all  lands  must  be  "regimented"  under  "  captains 
of  industry,"  who  will  co7n.pcl  them  to  their  task.  The 
same  offensive  disregard  of  the  rights  of  individual 
humanity,  the  same  contempt  for  freedom,  the  same  exag- 
geration of  its  mischiefs,  the  same  denial  or  unconscious- 
ness of  its  benefits,  runs  through  his  works,  and  mars  the 
beauty  and  the  value  of  them  all.  Truly,  the  despots  of 
the  world  —  whether  priests,  legitimate  tyrants,  or  mili- 
tary usurpers  —  never  before  among  literary  celebrities 
had  an  apologist  or  an  adorer  like  the  philosopher  of 
Chelsea. 

]Mr.  Kingsley's  idolatry  of  power  shows  itself  in  a  differ- 
ent fashion,  prompted  no  doul)t  by  his  different  organiza- 
tion, and  somewhat  more  befitting  his  clerical  profession. 
He  himself  is  endowed  by  nature  with  a  vigorous  and 
exuberant  organization,  is  a  sportsman,  a  *fox-hunter,  an 
athlete,  and  would  probably  have  been  a  gladiator  if  he 
had  not  been  a  Christian.  He  revels  in  the  description 
of  every  species  of  athletic  exercise  and  desperate  strife. 
Accordingly  all  his  heroes  are  men  of  surpassing  animal 
strength,  all  bone  and  muscle,  marvels  of  agility,  boiling 
over  with  exulting  and  abounding  life,  and  usually  mira- 
cles of  physical  beauty  likewise.  They  are  constantly 
"  models "  ;    and  very   often    "  young  Antinouses,"    or 


12G  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

"  Plicabus  Apollos."     He  loves  above  all  things  to  paint, 

and  to  disjtlay  in  action  liis  ideal  of  the  perfect  "  animal 

man."     Softness  and  feebleness  he  cannot  abide.     The 

perpetual  moral  of  his  writings,  -wliicli  crops  out  at  every 

sentence,  is  the  old  sentiment,  — 

' '  To  bf!  weak  is  miserable, 
Doing  01-  .sun'eiing." 

He  does  not,  like  ]Mr.  Carlyle,  bow  down  in  reverence 
before  Miglit  when  utterly  divorced  irom  Eight.  But 
it  is  impossible  not  to  perceive  that  admiration  for  what 
is  strong  as  strong,  is  about  his  most  vivid  original  in- 
stinct. With  all  his  Christian  feelings,  his  varnish  of 
modern  ci\ilization,  his  noble  aspirations,  and  all  the 
intense  philanthropies  of  his  heart,  Mr.  Kingsley,  beneath 
the  skin,  is  something  of  a  Goth,  a  pagan,  and  a  school- 
boy still. 

Finally,  and  not  to  weary  our  readers  further  with  this 
prolonged  parallel  between  the  two  most  picturesque  and 
graphic  writers  of  the  day,  one  other  guilty  similarity 
remains  to  be  denounced.  Both  are  declaimers,  —  not 
reasoners.  Their  declamation  is  always  powerful,  often 
splendid  ;  rich  witii  gorgeous  imagery  ;  full  of  lightning 
gleams — sometimes  lengthening  out  into  steady  rays  —  of 
grand  and  saving  truths  ;  frequently,  usually  perhaps, 
flashing  forth  in  the  cause  of  humanity  and  right ;  often 
striking  the  real  offender  and  the  real  sin,  often  proclaim- 
ing the  true  hero  and  extolling  the  true  virtue  ;  magnifi- 
cent in  its  wrath,  withering  in  its  scorn :  but,  after  all, 
only  declamation.  Neither  writer  ever  reasons,  in  the 
strict  sense  of  the  term.  Inspiration  supersedes  all  neces- 
sity for  the  siow  and  cautious  processes  by  which  con- 
scientious mortals  of  the  ordinary  stamp  must  painiully 
work  out  truth  and  light ;  and  both  ]\Ir.  Carlyle  and  ]Mr. 
Kingsley  believe  themselves  inspired.  The  industrious 
collection  and  collation  of  jiremises,  the  careful  elal)ora- 
tion  of  conclusions,  are  beneath  them.  They  despise  the 
inductive  process.*     Mr.  Carlyle  hates  facts";  Mr.  Kings- 

*  It  is  a  cxn-ious  exemi-lifioation,  that  ilr.  Kingslev  has  put  forth  a 
volume  treating  of  some  of  the  most  knotty  and  awful  questions  that 


KINGSLEY  AND  CARLYLE,  127 

ley  hates  logic.  The  hatred  of  both  breaks  out  on  all 
occasions.  Tlieir  opinions  on  subjects,  their  judgments 
of  men,  are  not  formed  by  reflection,  but  dictated  by 
sentiment ;  and  therefore  the  lirst  are  constantly  unsound, 
and  the  second  constantly  unjust.  What  they  like,  what 
fits  into  their  temperament,  tliat  they  believe,  and  tliat 
they  praise.  What  they,  dislike,  what  grates  upon  their 
tastes,  that  they  repudiate  and  denounce.  Their  abhor- 
rence of  reasoning  is  heightened  by  a  further  peculiarity 
common  to  the  two.  They  are  singularly  imjKitient  men. 
They  are  too  impatient  to  observe  and  inquire  ;  too  im- 
patient to  perpend  and  reflect ;  too  impatient  to  entertain 
doubts  and  resolve  them.  They  are  not  ruminating 
animals  ;  they  do  not  chew  the  cud  of  thought.  They 
pounce  njjoii  ideas,  catch  bright  glimpses  of  them,  have 
them  written  on  their  souls  as  by  a  flash  of -light,  shoot 
them  flying,  wake  in  the  morning  and  find  them  there ;  — 
but  never  create,  educe,  mould,  revolve  them. 

The  inevitable  consequence  of  this  is,  that  both  men, 
to  a  degree  wholly  unworthy  of  cultured  intellects,  are 
at  the  mercy  of  their  sympathies  and  tlieir  antipathies. 
You  cannot  have  better  awakeners,  nor  worse  guides. 
We  might  cite  a  thousand  illustrations,  but  two  will  suf- 
fice. Take  the  treatment  which  political  economy  and 
its  votaries  receive  at  their  hands.  Mr.  Carlyle  and  Mr. 
Kingsley  —  the  latter  especially  —  are  deeply  impressed 
with  the  wretched  condition  of  mankind  in  these  islands, 
and  with  the  vast  and  irresistible  influence  which  their 
material  well  or  ill  being  has  upon  their  moral  state.  In 
his  Miscellanies*  Mr.  Kingsley  states  his  views  on  this 
subject  with  a  breadth  and  daring  whicli  are  astounding 
in  a  clergyman,  but  with  which  we  almost  unreservedly 
agree.  To  make  men  virtuous,  he  everywhere  proclaims, 
you  must  first  rescue  them  from  their  physical  misery. 
Now,  political  economy  is  the  science  which  treats  of 
man's  material  well-being.     It  deals  with  causes,  not  with 

can  occupy  the  human  mind  under  the  perfectly  accurate  title  of  Loose 
Tliouglits  for  Loose  Thinkers. 
*  11.  pp.  332-334. 


128  LITERARY   AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

symptoms.  Discarding  the  shallow  charity  which  relieves 
sufiering  as  it  arises,  and  perpetuates  and  multiplies  it 
by  relieving  it,  political  economy  searches  out  and  ex- 
])lains  the  sources  of  that  suffering,  and  the  only  recipe 
fpr  its  radical  and  enduring  cure.  Eschewing  and  de- 
nouncing the  assistance  from  without,  which  degrades 
the  laborer,  it  studies  and  preaclies  that  knowledge  and 
self-control  whicli  elevates  and  strengtliens  while  it 
enriches  him.  Knowing  that .  competence  is  essential 
(among  the  masses  at  least)  to  virtue  and  to  progress,  its 
task  is  to  discover  and  proclaim  how  that  competence  is 
to  be  won.  It  is,  in  a  single  word,  the  Science  of  Philan- 
thropy. Its  business  is  to  show  how,  and  how  only, 
Mr.  Kingsley's  object  may  be  attained.  Surely  the 
professors  of  such  a  science  ought  to  be  recognized 
and  welcomed  by  him  as  fellow-laborers.  He  may 
think  their  principles  at  fault ;  he  may  think  their  rules 
too  rigid ;  lie  may  think  their  purpose  and  their  means 
too  narrow ;  but  at  least  he  must  see  tliat  they  are 
doing  his  work,  and  aiming  at  his  end.  But  no  ;  they 
are  exact  thinkers,  and  ]\Ir.  Kingsley  hates  the  fet- 
ters of  exactitude.  They  are  logicians,  and  believe  in 
logic ;  Mr.  Kingsley  neither  has  it,  nor  has  faith  in  it. 
They  are  often  dry,  stern,-  and  methodical,  while  Mr. 
Kingsley  is  impetuous,  enthusiastic,  and  sentimental ; 
and,  in  these  matters  at  least,  he  can  endure  no  man  wlio 
does  not  wear  his  livery,  speak  his  language,  and  go  his 
way.  Therefore  he  denounces  them  in  terms  quite  as 
violent,  and  almost  as  indecent  as  Mr.  Carlyle.  Yet  they 
are  both  acquainted  with  economists  —  with  one  at  least, 
and  he  perhaps  the  chief,  whose  compassion  for  the 
Avretched  and  the  astray  is  as  vivid  and  as  genuine  as 
their  own,  and  has  often  tried  hard  his  allegiance  to  souVid 
doctrine  and  scientific  truth,  and  more  than  once,  in  cur 
judgment,  found  it  wanting.  "Unheeding  all  this,  how- 
ever, and  never  pausing  to  master  the  science  they  detest, 
or  to  respect  the  thinker  whom  they  know,  they  have 
niade  political  economy  from  the  first,  and  make  it  still, 
the  object  of  their  fiercest  anathemas. 


KINGSLEY  AND  CARLYLE.  '  129 

We  need  not  encumber  our  pages  with  the  sarcasms 
which  disfigure  nearly  all  Mr.  Carlyle's  writings  against 
the  "  professors  of  the  Dismal  Science,"  "  the  GosjjcI  ac- 
cording to  M'Crowdy,"  and  the  like :  *  nor  should  we  be 
disposed  to  remind  our  readers  of  the  very  unseemly  and 
indefensible  language  used  on  the  subject  by  Mr.  Kings- 
ley  in  Cheap  Clothes  and  Nasty,  and  in  Alton  Locke  (of 
which  we  hoped  and  believed  that  he  had  long  ago  be- 
come ashamed),  were  it  not  that  in  his  Miscellanies, 
published  only  yesterday,  we  came  upon  a  passage  in  his 
old  manner,  which  proves  too  clearly  that  the  shame  has 
been  ineffectual,  and  that  the  repentance  is,  to  say  the 
least,  incomplete.  At  present  Mr.  Kingsley  is  wild 
about  sanitary  reform ;  so  are  we.  Well,  then,  remem- 
bering who  was  the  chief  originator,  and  unwearied,  if 
not  unwearying,  advocate  of  that  great  movement,  how 
could  he  dare  to  pen  and  publish  this  heartless  sneer  ? 

"  Others  again  expected,  with  equal  wisdom,  the  assistance 
of  the  political  economist  [in  the  work  of  sanitary  reform]. 
The  fact  is  undeniable,  but  at  the  same  time  inexplicable. 
What  they  could  have  found  in  the  doctrines  of  most  modern 
political  economists  which  should  lead  them  to  believe  tliat 
human  life  would  he  precious  in  their  eyes  is  unknown  to  the 
writer  of  these  pages.  Those  whose  bugbear  has  been  over- 
population, whose  motto  has  been  a  euphuistic  version  of 

"  The  more  the  merrier,  the  fewer  the  better  fare," 

cannot  he  expected  to  lend  their  aid  in  increasing  the  popiila- 
tion  by  saving  the  lives  of  tivo-thirds  of  the  children  ivho  now 
die  prematurely  in  our  great  cities,  and  so  still  further  over- 
crowding this  unhappy  land  with  those  helpless  and  expen- 
sive sources  of  national  poverty,  —  rational  human  beings  in 
strength  and  health."  f 

*  See  Past  and  Present,  Chartism,  and  Latter-Day  Pamphlets,  pas- 
sim. 

t  In  justice  to  ourselves,  and  as  a  specimen  of  Mr.  Kingsley's  style 
when  he  comes  across  his  foes,  we  must  give  the  rest  of  the  })assage, 
though  we  confess  to  a  feeling  almost  of  disgust  as  we  transcribe  his 
random  irony. 

"  By  political  economy  alone  has  this  faculty  [progress  and  invention] 
been  denied  to  man.  In  it  alone  he  is  not  to  conquer  Nature,  but 
6*  I 


130  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

It  is  as  useless  to  argue  with  Mr.  Kingsley  when  he 
takes  up  liis  paraljlc  against  economic  science,  as  M'itli 
Sir  A.  Alison  when  he  opens  out  about  the  currency. 
])Ut  passing  over  the  unscrupulousness  of  the  ahove  on- 
slauglit,  we  cannot  lielp  ohserving  tliat  a  little  reading  or 
a  little  thought  might  have  shown  ]\Ir.  Kingslty  its  I'al- 
sity  as  well.  Does  he  not  know  that  human  lil'e  is  ]ire- 
cious  in  the  eyes  of  political  economists ;  not  perhaps 
for  the  same  considerations  as  with  him,  but  precisely 
because  they  are  wise  reasoners  and  sound  calculators  ? 
Is  he  not  aware  that  they  deplore  that  sacrifice  of  youth- 
ful life  caused  by  a  neglect  of  sanitary  laws,  because  it 
is  wasteful  as  well  as  cruel  ?  They  long  ago  exphiined 
and  remonstrated  against  the  folly  and  extravagance  of 
these  inchoate  and  incomplete  existences ;  they  repeat- 
edly and  seriousl}''  called  attention  to  the  fact  that,  to 
take  no  higher  ground,  —  for,  be  it  remembered,  in  their 
2)7'ofcssion  they  are  men  of  science,  and  not  moralists, — 
every  child  that  was  not  reared  to  manhood  was  a  drain 
upon  the  national  wealth,  a  source  of  uniepaid  expendi- 
ture, an  investment  of  toil  and  money  which  yielded  no 

simply  to  obey  hor.  Let  her  starve  him,  make  him  a  slave,  a  haiikrnpt, 
or  what  not,  he  must  submit,  as  the  savage  does  to  the  hail  and  the 
lightnin<(.  'Laissez-faire,'  says  tlie  'science  du  neant,'  —  the  'science 
de  la  misire,'  as  it  has  truly  and  bitterly  been  called,  —  ' laisscz-faire.' 
Analyze  economic  questions  if  you  will,  but  beyond  analysis  you  shall 
not  step.  Any  attempt  to  raise  political  economy  to  its  .synthetic  stage 
is  to  break  the  laws  of  nature,  to  light  against  facts  ;  as  if  facts  were  not 
made  to  be  fought  against  and  conquered  and  put  out  of  the  tcay,  uhenso- 
evcr  they  interfere  in  the  least  with  the  welfare  of  any  human  being. 
[Strange  jumble  and  confu.sion  between  facts  and  truths,  principles  and 
laws.]  The  drowning  man  is  not  to  strike  out  for  his  life,  lest  by  keep- 
ing his  head  above  water  he  interferes  with  the  laws  of  gravitation,  ^'ot 
that  the  political  economist,  or  any  man,  can  be  true  to  his  own  fallacy. 
He  must  needs  tiy  his  hand  at  the  synthetic  method,  though  he  forbids 
it  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  But  the  only  deductive  hint  which  he  has 
as  yet  given  to  mankind  is,  quaintly  enough,  the  most  unnatural 
'  eidolon  speciis '  which  ever  entered  into  the  head  of  a  dehumanii'ed 
pedant, — name'y,  that  once  famous  'preventive  check,'  which  —  if 
ever  a  nation  did  apply  it,  as  it  never  will  —  could  issue,  as  every  doctor 
knows,  in  nothing  less  than  the  questionable  habits  of  abortion,  child- 
murder,  and  unnatural  crime."  —  Miscellanies,  I.  116. 

It  is  diliicult  to  .say  whether  the  rattling  nonsense  or  the  unseemly  in- 
sinuations of  tliis  passage  aie  the  more  repellent. 


KINGSLEY  AND   CARLYLE.  131 

return, —  a  consumer  only,  and  a  producer  never.  They 
condemned  the  costly  folly  of  letting  children  die  before 
they  reached  the  laboring  and  remunerating  age  (or  bring- 
ing them  into  the  world  so  that  they  must  so  die),  on  the 
same  principles  as  they  would  condemn  the  analogous 
insanity  of  trampling  down  your  green  corn,  or  building- 
houses  and  then  letting  them  fall  to  pieces  before  yuu 
finished  them  ;  hecixuse,  from  the  point  of  view  at  which 
they  were  then  dealing  vjitli  the  subject,  the  cases  were  alike, 
inasmuch  as  both  were  idle  and  wasteful  preparations  for 
a  result  that  was  never  to  arrive,  —  planting  a  tree  that 
was  never  to  bear  fruit.  In  technical  language,  both 
were  instances  of  "  unproductive  expenditure." 

The  same  servitude  to  impressions  and  antipathies 
which  makes  Mr.  Kingsley  so  unjust  to  nnwelcome  doc- 
trines, makes  liim  also  unjust  to  alien  men.  We  cannot 
have  a  better -illustration  than  his  comments  on  Shelley 
and  Byron,  republished  in  his  Miscellanies  (I.  p.  310). 
His  attack  upon  the  former  seems  to  us  utterly  unwar- 
rantable. Byron,  amid  all  his  fearful  sins,  was  a  "  man  "  :' 
he  was  gifted  with  indomitable  energy  and  courage ;  he 
excelled  in  all  bodily  exercises  of  which  his  lameness  al- 
lowed him  to  partake,  —  he  swam,  boxed,  rode,  shot,  to 
perfection ;  was  vehement,  impetuous,  daring,  and  above 
all,  combative ;  a  child  of  impulses,  many  of  them  noljle 
and  sane,  all  of  them  natural  and  vigorous :  and  there- 
fore he  was,  except  in  his  excesses  and  his  sins,  a  man 
after  Mr.  Kingsley's  own  heart.  Though  his  nature  was 
intensely  worldly,  Byron  too  was,  or  fancied  himself, 
a  sort  of  Christian ;  while  Shelley,  whose  nature  was  es- 
sentially, though  waywardly,  religious,  was,  and  pro- 
claimed himself,  an  unlieliever.  Poor  Shelley  —  gentle, 
tender,  ethereal,  and  aspiring,  solder  and  abstemious,  a 
pale  student,  an  abstract  and  highly  metaphysical 
thinker,  delicate  as  a  woman  in  his  organization,  sensi- 
tive as  a  woman  in  his  sympathies,  loathing  all  that  was 
coarse  and  low  with  a  woman's  shrinking,  detesting  all 
field-sports  as  barbarous  and  brutal — presented  a  phase 
of  humanity  utterly  alien  to  the  rampant  and  "  healthy 


132  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

aniinalism "  of  Mr.  Kingslcy's  nature.  In  oaily^  lil'e 
Shelley,  habitually  the  purest  and  least  sensual  of  men, 
coniinitted  one  grievous  fault,  so  far  as  we  can  judge,  less 
at  the  instigation  of  wrong  passions  than  under  the  de- 
lusion of  a  false  "theory.  In  early  life,  too,  when  wild 
iind  flighty. almost  to  the  verge  of  insanity,  if  not  some- 
times beyond  it,  when  smarting  under  l)itter  wrongs,  en- 
thusiastic for  the  regeneration  of  the  M-orld,  burning  with 
boyish  zeal  for  the  destruction  of  what  he  held  to  be  a  mis- 
chievous and  tyrannical  delusion,  and  full  of  the  self-opin- 
ion which  belongs  to  youth,  and  not  unfrequently  survives 
it,  —  he  poured  forth  mad  anathemas  against  Christianity 
and  social  law.  It  availed  nothing  that  he  denounced  un- 
natural and  ascetic  priests  with  a  pertinacious  eloquence 
akin  to  Mr.  Kingsley's  own ;  that  his  purse,  his  time,  his 
strength,  were  always  at  the  call  of  the  suffering  and  the 
sad  ;  that  his  blood  boiled  as  fiercely  as  that  of  the  strong- 
est at  the  bare  idea  of  injustice  and  oppression,  and  that 
in  such  a  cause  he  was  as  brave  as  a  lion,  and  would  take 
any  odds  ;  that  he  exercised  over  the  coarser  mind  of 
Byron  a  strange  -influence  which,  if  not  intellectually 
wholesome,  was  always  morally  improving ;  and  that  he 
even  persuaded  him  to  abstain  from  continuing  his  profli- 
gate poem ;  —  all  this  goes  for  nothing  ;  the  one  poet  was 
sympathetic,  the  other  antipathic  to  Mr.  Kingsley's 
tastes ;  and  accordingly,  Shelley,  whose  life,  we  believe 
(except  in  the  one  instance  referred  to)  Avas  strictly 
chaste,  and  whose  pages  are  as  pure  as  Mr.  Kingsley's 
own,  —  for  he,  like  Shelley,  sometimes  errs  iu  saying 
things  better  left  unsaid,  and  like  Shelley,  too,  errs  from 
mistaken  theory,  and  not  from  wrong  design,  —  Shelley 
is  "lewd"  and  a  "  satyr."  "  Byron  may  be  brutal,  but  he 
never  cants";  —  "if  Byron  sinned  more  desperately  and 
more  flagrantly,  it  was  done  under  the  temptations  of 
rank,  wealth,  disappointed  love,  and  the  impulses  of  an 
animal  nature,  to  which'  Shelley's  passions  were 

'  As  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto  wine.'  " 

To  Shelley,  therefore,  is  attributed  "  the  lewdness  of  the 


KINGSLEY  AND   CARLYLE.  133 

gentle  and  sensitive  vegetarian " ;  and  Byron  is  "  the 
sturdy  peer,  proud  of  his  bidl  neck  and  his  boxing,  who 
kept  bears  and  bull-dogs,  and  drilled  Greek  ruffians  at 
Missolonghi,  and  'had  no  objection  to  a  pot  of  beer'; 
and  who  might,  if  he  had  been  reformed,  have  made  a 
gallant  English  gentleman:  while  Shelley,  if  once  his 
intense  self-opinion  had  deserted  him,  would  probably 
have  ended  in  Eome  as  an  Oratorian  or  a  Passionist."  * 
A  more  characteristic  passage  —  one  more  richly  redo- 
lent of  unregenerate  Kingsleianism  —  itwould.be  diffi- 
cult to  find.  It  suggests,  too,  another  criticism  we  have 
to  make  upon  our  author,  —  the  close  connection,  namely, 
of  his  greatest  merits  and  his  greatest  faults  with  the 
intensely  social  character  of  his  mind.  His  test,  not  only 
of  good  and  evil,  but  of  truth  and  falsehood,  may  be  said 
to  be  the  tendency  of  actions  or  doctrines  to  dissolve  the 
bonds  of  social  unity,  or  to  draw  them  closer.  This  per- 
haps lies  at  the  root  of  his  dislike  to  political  economy. 
Competition  —  which  political  economy  recognizes  as  the 
law  of  trade  —  he  sees,  truly  enough,  to  be  the  source 
of  much  selfishness,  many  jealousies,  and  occasionally  of 
bitter  animosities  and  heart-burnings  ;  and  hence  he  tries 
to  sweep  the  whole  system  away  with  the  strong  wind 
of  religious  faith.  His  deep  respect  for  sanitary  laws, 
for  bodily  exercises,  for  field-sports,  is  in  a  great  measure 
due  to  the  connection  of  these  things  with  social  health, 
and  the  effect  they  have  in  clearing  away  the  secret  mor- 
bidness of  exclusive  temperaments,  and  oj^ening  the  com- 
munications between  mind_  and  mind.  He  knows  well 
that  there  is  scarcely  any  root  of  exclusiveness,  of  moral 
cowardice,  of  self-involvement,  of  social  blight,  so  com- 

*  It  is  singular  that,  a  few  pages  further  on,  we  find  Mr.  Kingsley 
speaking  of  Shelley  in  almost  the  precise  terms  in  which  we  have 
spoken  of  himself:  "Whether  it  be  vegetarianism  or  liberty,  the  rule 
[with  Shelley]  is  practically  the  same,  ■ —  sentiment  ;  which  in  this  case, 
as  in  the  case  of  all  sentimentalists,  turns  out  to  mean  at  last,  not  the 
sentiments  of  mankind  in  general,  but  the  private  sentiments  of  the 
writer.  This  is  Shelley  ;  a  sentimentalist  pure  and  simple  ;  incapable 
of  anything  like  inductive  reasoning,  unable  to  take  cognizance  cf  any 
facts  but  those  which  please  his  taste,  or  to  draw  any  conclusion  from 
them  but  such  as  also  pleases  his  taste"  (p.  314). 


1.11  LITrJiAUY   AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

inon  as  the  ne<];lect  of  jiliysical  liealtli  and  exercise ;  and 
lie  is  aware,  too,  that  tlic;  social  and  buoyant  tone  of 
his  own  ("hristiaiiity  al•is(^s  in  a  f^i'cat  measure  from  his 
ItuihHii^L,'  it  u])  on  a  sound  Ibundation  of  })l)ysical  health. 
'J'iierc  are  evidently  few  tilings  he  liates  so  much  as  the 
morbid  fancifulness  of  solitary  and  sedentary  minds. 

But  this  social  test  of  right  and  truth,  sound  enough 
as  far  as  it  goes,  is,  more  consudo,  so  exaggerated  by  ]Mr. 
Kingsley  tliat  it  often  brings  out  very  false  results.  It 
is  true  that  there  must  be  a  seed  of  error  and  of  poison 
in  any  mind,-  or  in  any  system  of  belief,  which  leads  per- 
manently to  isolation,  narrowness,  and  frigid  self-suffi- 
ciency. But  it  is  not  true  —  as  Mr.  King.sley  thinks  — 
that  the  characteristic  sins  of  social  temperaments  are 
loss  heinous  or  less  dangerous  than  the  characteristic 
sins  of  solitary  temperaments ;  nor  even  that  convictions 
^vhich  force  time  may  seem  to  sever  men  from  their  fel- 
low-creatures, and  to  remove  them  painfully  from  human 
sympathy,  are  less  true  than  those  which  give  an  imme- 
diate and  commanding  hold  of  the  popular  mind.  Now 
Mr.  Kingsley  falls  into  both  these  errors.  In  that  essay 
on  Shelley  and  Byron  to  which  we  have  just  referred, 
the  man  of  social  temperament,  of  unbridled  passions, 
and  of  unbridled  selfishness,  is  contrasted  with  a  man 
whose  complex,  benevolent,  sensitive,  but  in  several 
points  unhealthy,  spirit  was  of  such  a  kind  that  few 
could  understand  him  fully,  and  few  were  fully  under- 
stood by  him.  That  the  one  was  morbid,  and  the  other 
manly,  we  do  not  deny ;  but  we  cannot  conceive  how 
any  just-minded  moralist,  who  judged  by  a  true  test  — 
or,  intlced,  by  any  standard  at  all  other  than  his  own 
self-will  and  predilections  —  could  compare  Byron  with 
Slielley,  and  feel  inclined  to  give  judgment  in  favor  of 
the  hardy  reprobate  over  the  gentle  and  aspiring  enthu- 
siast. But  what  j\Ir.  Kingsley  feels  so  strongly  is,  that 
Byron's  sins  against  the  social  bond,  though  deep  and 
gross,  were  open  and  easily  exposed  ;  Shelley's  lil'e  and 
])oetry,  on  the  other  hand,  he  thiidvs  likely  to  fascinate 
men  with  an  appearance  of  beauty  and  nobility  which 


KINGSLEY  AND  CARLYLE.  135 

will  end  in  eating  out  the  manliness  of  their  life  and  the 
heart  of  their  faith.  It  is  possible  enough,  perhaps,  that 
a  Slielley  school  of  thought  —  though  not  half  so  likely 
to  become  prevalent  —  might,  if  prevalent,  be  more  evil 
in  its  influences  than  a  Byronic  school,  because  it  would 
be  a  more  complex  and  subtle  combination  of  noble  sen- 
timents with  emotional  self-indulgence.  But  what  right 
have  we,  in  comparing  the  two  men,  to  judge  them  by 
the  probable  effects  upon  society  of  their  characteristic 
faults  ?  The  fact  remains,  that  Shelley  —  though  afflicted 
with  a  morbid  and  unsocial  nature,  which,  however,  he 
did  much  to  elevate  and  purify  —  was _  self-controlled, 
benevolent,  dignified,  courageously  true,  and  compara- 
tively pure  in  life ;  while  Byron  was  selfish,  sensual,  cov- 
etous of  fame,  not  above  dissimulation,  and  without  the 
power  of  mastering  himself.  Yet  the  Christian  minister 
prefers  the  strong  fast  sinner  to  the  erroneous  and  anti- 
pathic thinker. 

But  IVIr.  Kingsley  not  only  makes  social  influence  a 
test  of  good  and  evil ;  he  too  much  inclines  to  make  it 
a  test  of  Tridh  also.  In  the  dialogue  of  PhactJion  —  a 
book,  by  the  way,  which  if  a  man  wishes  to  fill  his  belly 
with  tlie  east  wind  (as  Solomon  says),  he  had  better  read 
to-morrow  —  he  is  not  ashamed  to  assert  that  a  man  who 
has  reached  what  he  is  convinced  is  positive  truth,  should 
suppress  the  expression  of  that  conviction  if  it  seems  to 
be  in  conflict  with  (what  Mr.  Kingsley,  we  suppose, 
deems  to  be)  the  more  happy  and  useful  belief  of  society 
at  large.  The  atheist,  we  are  told,  even  if  moved  by  the 
"  Spirit  of  Truth,"  is  bound  to  conceal  his  unbelief ;  — 

"  for  there  would  be  far  more  chance  that  he  alone  was 
wnnig,  and  the  many  right,  than  that  the  many  were  wrong, 
and  he  alone  right.  He  would,  therefore,  commit  an  inso- 
lent and  conceited  action,  and  moreover  a  cruel  and  shame- 
less one ;  for  he  would  certainly  make  miserable,  were  he 
believed,  the  hearts  of  many  virtuous  persons  who  had  never 
harmed  him,  for  no  iu:imediate  or  demonstrable  purpose  ex- 
cept that  of  pleasing  his  own  self-will"  (p.  41). 

This  is  perhaps  the  worst  instance  to  be  found  in  Mr. 


13G  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

Kingsley's  writings  of  his  undiscriminating  worship  (  t' 
the  social  bond.  If  he  had  given  himself  time  to  tliink; 
or  had  asked  any  reasoning  friend  to  think  for  him,  he 
would  scarcely  have  pul)lished  such  a  passage;  or,  indeed, 
any  ])ortion  of  the  slipshod  volume  which  contains  it. 
No  douht,  ill  the  end,  any  creed  must  be  false,  or  must 
contain  a  large  element  of  error,  wliich  tends  to  drive 
men  asunder;  and  all  true  faith  ought  ultimately  to  draw 
them  into  closer  union  and  harmony.  But  this  is  not, 
and  cannot  be,  our  main  test  of  their  truth ;  and  those 
who  make  it  so  commit  exactly  the  same- mistake  as  the 
utilitarian  moralist,  who  judges  of  moral  actions  only  by 
their  consequences.  Deep  conviction  is  the  sole  sine  qua 
lion  of  the  duty  of  public  expression.  Of  course,  no  man 
is  bound,  and  no  man  has  a  right,  to  throw  forth  to  tha 
world  his  crude,  hasty,  passing  notions  on  serious  sub- 
jects, especially  if  those  notions  are  likely  to  prove  per- 
turbing or  offensive,  and  if  he  has  not  qualified  himself  by 
years,  by  study,  by  patient  inquiry,  and  by  modest  reflec- 
tion, to  form  and  to  propound  independent  opinions  :  and 
Mr.  Kingsley  might  take  this  lesson  home.  ,  But  the  ma- 
ture convictions  of  mature  minds  are  the  great  instru- 
ments of  social  progress  and  purification :  all  who  read 
history  know  them  to  be  so  ;  all  who  believe  in  God  should 
feel  them  to  be  so  likewise,  and  should  beware  lest,  out  of 
mere  timid  unfaithfulness  of  soul,  they  "quench  the 
Spirit,"  and  fight  against  the  suggestions  of  the  Most 
High. 

As  in  the  few  pages  which  remain  of  our  allotted  space 
we  shall  address  our  criticisms  to  Mr.  Kingsley  alone,  we 
should  be  sorry  to  leave  our  readers  under  the  impression 
that  what  we  have  said  of  his  analogue,  Mr.  Carlyle,  com- 
prises our  whole  opinion  of  that  eminent  man,  or  at  all 
faithfully  conveys  the  sentiments  with  which  we  regard 
him.  We  have  spoken  of  his  faults  freely  and  severely  ; 
and  we  have  nothing  more  to  add  on  that  score.  But 
Mr.  Carlyle  is  a  man  to  be  spoken  of  with  respect,  even 
where  we  cannot  speak  of  him  with  patience.     The  pres- 


KINGSLEY  AND  CARLYLE.  137 

ent  age  owes  to  few  a  deeper  debt  of  gratitude.  He  has 
infused  into  it  something  of  his  own  uncompromising 
earnestness.  He  has  preached  up  the  duty  and  the  dignity 
of  Work,  with  an  eloquence  which  has  often  made  the  idle 
shake  off  their  idleness,  and  the  frivolous  feel  ashamed 
of  their  frivolity.  He  has  proclaimed,  in  tones  that  have 
stirred  many  hearts,  that  in  toil,  however  humble,  if  hon- 
est and  hearty,  lie  our  true  worth  and  felicity  here  below. 
"Blessed  is  the  man  who  has  found  his  work,''  he  some- 
where says  :  "  let  him  ask  no  other  blessedness."  He  lias 
inspired  in  6thers  something  of  his  own  contempt  fur 
animal  indulgence,  and  for  unproductive-  and  unaspiring 
ease.  He  is  the  most  terrible  scourge  the  fruges  consn- 
mere  nati  ever  had.  For  everything  unreal  and  deceptive 
he  has  a  keen  eye  and  a  withering  denunciation.  He  has 
broken  in  pieces  many  hollow  idols,  and  scattered  to  the 
winds  many  empty  pretensions,  many  time-honored  false- 
lioods,  many  half-held  creeds.  He  has  forced  a  conven- 
tional and  shallow  generation  to  test  and  try  many  things, 
and  to  abandon  what  lias  clearly  been  found  wanting.  If 
he  has  built  up  little,  he  has  destroyed  much ;  lie  has 
prepared  the  way  for  future  workmen  by  removing  vast 
heaps  of  encumbering  rubbish.  On  thinkers  and  on  the 
young  he  has  exercised  an  influence  which  has  always 
been  remarkable,  and  generally  salutary  ;  and  if  he  lias 
been  usually  scouted  and  neglected  by  statesmen  and 
politicians,  by  the  practical  and  the  sober-minded,  he 
owes  it  to  his  inveterate  habit  —  in  which  again,  by  the 
way,  Mr.  Kingsley  resembles  him  —  of  stating  truth  with 
such  outrageous  exaggeration  that  it  looks  like  falsehood, 
and  almost  becomes  such. 

"VYe  have  tw^o  more  criticisms  to  make  on  Mr.  Kings- 
ley's  writings,  and  both  relate  to  very  grave  faults.  AYith 
faculties  equal  to  turning  out  work  of  almost  any  degree 
of  excellence,  his  ordinary  style  of  workmanship  is  slov- 
enly and  slipshod.  With  power  to  reach  almost  any  stand- 
ard, his  ordinary  standard  is  unfixed  and  low.  He,  Avho  can 
do  so  well,  is  content  often  to  do  ill.    We  are  sure  that  he 


138  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

writes  as  ho  thinks,  hastily  and  inconsiderately.  His 
rattling,  random,  f>alloi)ing,  defiant  style  irresistibly  con- 
veys the  impression  of  a  man  of  overflowinj^-  mind  coming 
in  from  a  hreathless  burst  with  the  fox-hounds,  rushing 
to  his  desk  \vitli  muddy  boots,  battered  hat,  and  disor- 
dered dress,  and  dashing  off  with  vast  rapidity  the  teenjing 
fancies  suggested  to  him  by  a  brisk  circulation  and  a  fertile 
and  vivid  brain.  He  is  essentially  an  im2)rovisatorc,  — 
an  extempore  writer.  His  luxuriance  is  marvellous  ;  but 
he  never  2)runes  or  tones  it  down.  It  is  difficult  to  avoid 
the  conclusion  that,  conscious  of  his  own  great  gifts,  he 
thinks  that  his  loosest  and  most  careless  thoughts  are 
good  enough  for  the  world.  He  wants  respect  for  his 
readers,  for  his  art,  and  for  his  own  powers.  He  does  not 
value  the  talent  God  has  given  him  sufficiently  to  culti- 
vate it  to  its  highest  point  of  perfection,  to  dress  it  in 
the  most  fitting  drapery,  or  to  be  on  the  watch  against  its 
straggling  vagaries.  He  has  none  of  the  noble,  artistic, 
old  Greek  thirst  for  perfection.  He  "  goes  in  "  for  quan- 
tity rather  than  quality.  Content  with,  and  revelling  in, 
a  prolific  exuberance  that  is  almost  unrivalled ;  seeking 
to  do  much  rather  than  to  do  well ;  trusting  to  ins]iira- 
tion,  and  fancying  (perhaps  too  easily)  that  whatever 
comes  must  be  inspired, —  he  is  forever  falling  below 
himself,  and  at  once  disappointing  and  irritating  his  ad- 
mirers. Now,  a  genius  like  Mr.  Kingsley's  not  only  de- 
serves the  most  sedulous  culture,  but  demands  the  most 
severe  control.  It  is  too  rich  and  teeming  to  be  left  to 
"  wander  at  its  own  sweet  will."  It  needs  to  be  emi^loyecl, 
not  to  be  indulged.  A  man  has  no  more  right  to  allow 
his  powers  to  be  less  useful  and  profitable  than  they 
might  be  made,  than  he  has  to  misuse  or  to  neglect  them 
altogether.  If  it  be  sinful  to  wrap  your  talent  in  a  nap- 
kin and  hide  it  in  the  earth,  it  is  only  one  degree  less 
sinful  so  to  handle  it  as  to  make  it  yield  twofold  only 
where  it  might  yield  ten. 

We  have  said  that  Mr.  Kingsley  is  essentially  an  im- 
jorovisatore.  His  novels  especially  bear  the  same  relation 
to  the  best  works  of  art,  in  their  line,  that  the  extempore 


KINGSLEY  AND  CARLYLE.  139 

versification  of  an -abounding  fancy  bears  to  the  con- 
scientiously perfected  and  polished  production  of  a 
consummate  poet.  It  is  difficult  to  believe  that,  either  in 
Hypatia  or  in  Two  Years  Ago,  he  had  laid  his  plot 
beforehand :  in  Yeast  there  does  not  preteud  to  be  any 
plot  at  all.  HyiKttia  especially  might  have  been  so 
grand,  and  is  so  disappointiug.  There  is  consummate 
mastery  of  the  costume  and  character  of  the  epoch ; 
there  are  magnificent  materials  of  character  and  fancy 
brought  together  to  the  workshop ;  there  are  gorgeous 
descriptions  of  external  beauty;  there  are  individual 
scenes  of  thrilling  interest;  there  are  wonderful  glimpses 
both  of  thought  and  passion.  Eaphael  Aben  Ezra's  med- 
itations when  he  gets  to  the  "  bottom  of  the  abyss  "  of 
scepticism,  and  poor  Pelagia's  piercing  remonstrances 
against  the  prospect  of  being  consigned  to  the  flames  of  hell 
forever,  are  among  the  most  powerful  passages  we  have 
read  in  any  language.  But  the  inconsiderate  confusion  in 
which  the  incidents  of  the  story  jostle  and  stumble  over 
one  another,  and  the  indistinctness  with  which  many  of 
them  are  told,  compel  us  to  reserve  our  admiration  for 
particular  scenes  and  portions,  and  render  it  impossible  to 
praise  the  work  as  a  whole.  Mingled  with  our  pleasure 
and  our  interest  in  reading  it,  and  spoiling  both,  come 
the  ever-recurring  reflections,  "  How  much  more  might 
have  been  made  of  this  !  how  much  better  this  might  have 
been  done  !  what  a  splendid  conception,  but  what  an  un- 
worthy and  slovenly  maltreatment  of  it ! "  Still,  with  all 
its  faults,  it  is  unquestionably  a  work  of  genius  ;  but  of 
genius  in  a  hurry, —  of  genius,  as  it  were,  shut  up  with- 
out fire  or  candle,  like  an  inharmonious  jury,  and  com- 
pelled to  complete  its  task  before  it  can  regain  its  lil^erty. 
The  general  picture  of  those  times  is  imperfect  and  con- 
fused enough,  not  from  want  of  knowledge,  but  I'rom 
want  of  care  and  patience  ;  the  view  of  the  great  strug- 
gle between  Christianity  and  Paganism,  when  the  latter 
was  an  etfete  and  dying  unreality,  and  the  former  was  inso- 
lent with  rough  young  life  and  rampant  with  incipient 
victory, — which  offered  so  magnificent  a  subject  for  a  pen 


140  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

competent  to  deal  with  it,  —  is  in  our  opinion  most  inad- 
e(|ualely  and  mistily  worked  out;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  extrava,uaiit  iollies  and  tlie  brutal  vices  of  tlie  Al- 
cxandi-ian  Christians,  as  well  as  the  narrow  bigotry, 
questionable  motives,  and  unscrupulous  violence  of  their 
leaders,  are  drawn  with  a  powerful  and  unsparing  hand. 
Philammon,  the  young  monk  who  goes  forth  to  see  the 
world,  is  interesting  and  natural  ;  so  is  the  wily  and  cul- 
tivated J-ew,  first  a  cynical  philosopher,  and  then  a  con- 
vert to  the  new  religion ;  so  also  is  Pelagia,  tlie  Athenian 
dancing-girl  and  courtesan,  —  frivolous,  pleasure-loving, 
and  childish,  undeveloped  and  soulless  because  untaught, 
unconsciously  sinful  because  brought  up  to  sin,  but  still 
endowed  with  some  original  elements  of  good,  and  there- 
fore redeemable,  and  in  the  end  redeemed.  Hypatia,  the 
beautiful  teacher  of  a  poetic  philosophy  and  a  poetic 
creed  ;  the  beautiful  dweller  in  a  beautiful  cloud-land ; 
the  enthusiastic  votary  of  the  old  gods  of  Greece;  spot- 
less, ethereal,  noble,  but  a  dreamer ;  vainly  and  Avildly 
striving  to  save  and  fan  the  flickering  embers  of  a  fading 
past,  and  to  brighten  and  animate  with  her  own  vivid 
life  the  chill  and  pallid  moonlight  of  the  pagan  faith,  is 
grandly  conceived  and  finely  depicted.  The  other  char- 
acters in  the  book  seem  to  us  either  blotches  or  mere  in  ■ 
dicated  outlines.  The  only  extract  we  shall  allow  our- 
selves is  the  soliloquy  of  Pelagia,  after  she  has  been 
awakened  by  the  denunciations  and  the  pity  of  Philam- 
mon  and  Arsenius  to  the  sinfulness  of  her  life,  and  its 
reputed  future  issue :  — 

"  '  I  cannot  bear  it !  Anything  but  shame  !  To  have  fan- 
cied all  my  life  —  vain  fool  that  I  was!  —  that  everyone 
loved  and  admired  me ;  and  to  find  that  they  were  despising 
me,  hathig  me,  all  along !  .  .  .  .  And  yet  women  as  bad  as. 
I  liave  been  honored,  —  when  they  were  dead.  What  was 
that  song  I  iised  to  sing  about  Epicharis,  who  hung  herself 
in  the  litter,  and  Leaina,  who  bit  out  her  tongue,  lest  torture 
should  drive  them  to  betray  their  lovers  1  There  used  to  be  a 
statue  of  Leaina,  they  say,  at  Athens,  —  a  lioness  without 
a  tonsue And  whenever  I  sang  the  song,  the  thcutie 


KIXGSLEY  AND  CARLYLE.  141 

used  to  rise  and  shout,  and  call  them  noble  and  blessed 

I  never  could  tell  why  then ;  but  I  know  now  !  Perhaps 
the}^  may  call  me  noble,   after  all.     At   least  they  may  say, 

"  She  was   a  ;  but  she   dared  to  die   for  the    man  she 

loved  !"....  Ay,  but  God  despises  me  too  and  hates  me. 
He  will  send  me  to  eternal  fire.  Philammon  said  so,  — 
though  he  was  my  brother.     The  old  monk  said  so,  though 

he  wept    as   he   said   it The   flames  of  hell  for  ever  ! 

0,  not  for  ever  !  Great,  di'eadfal  God  !  not  for  ever !  In- 
deed, I  did  not  know  !  No  one  ever  taught  me  about  right 
and  wrong  ;  and  I  never  knew  I  had  been  baptized,  —  indeed 
I  never  knew  !  And  it  was  so  pleasant,  —  so  pleasant  to  b3 
loved  and  praised  and  happy,  and  to  see  happy  faces  round 
me.  How  could  I  help  it  ]  The  birds  who  ai'e  singing  in 
the  darling,  beloved  court, — they  do  what  they  like;  and 
Thou  art  not  angry  with  them  for  being  happy.  And  Thou 
wilt  not  be  more  cruel  to  me  than  to  them,  great  God,  —  for 
what  did  I  know  more  than  they  1  Thou  hast  made  the 
beautifid  sunshine,  and  the  pleasant,  pleasant  world,  and 
the  flowers  and  the  birds.  Thou  wilt  not  send  me  to  burn 
for  ever  and  ever  ]  will  not  a  hundred  years  be  punishment 
enough  ]  —  or  a  thousand  ?  0  God,  is  not  this  punish- 
ment enough  already,  — to  have  to  leave  him  just  as — just 
as  I  am  beginning  to  long  to  be  good  and  to  be  worthy  of 
him  ]  ....  0,  have  mercy,  —  mercy,  —  mercy,  —  and 
let  me  go  after  I  have  been  punished  enough  !  Why  may  I 
not  turn  into  a  bird,  or  even  into  a  worm,  and  come  back 
again  out  of  that  horrible  place,  to  see  the  sun  shine  and  the 
flowers  grow  once  more  1  0,  am  not  I  punishing  myself 
already  1  Will  not  this  help  to  atone  1  .  .  .  .  Yes,  I  will 
die!  —  and  perhaps  so  God  will  pity  me.'  And  with  trem- 
bling hands  she  drew  the  sword  from  its  sheath,  and  covered 
the  blade  with  kisses.  '  Yes,  on  this  sword,  —  with  which  lie 
won  his  battles.  That  is  right,  —  his  to  the  last.  AVill  it 
be  very  painful  1  After  all,  it  is  his  sword  ;  it  will  not  have 
the  heart  to  tortiu'e  me  much.'  " 

IMany  of  the  same  remarks  we  have  made  on  Hypatia 
Avill  apply  to  Tuo  Years  Ago.  To  ns  this  appears  the 
cleverest  and  the  pleasantest  of  Mr.  Kingsley's  novels  ; 
but  it,  like  the  rest,  shows  a  singular  absence  of  the  artis- 
tic spirit.     The  plot  is  clumsy,  and  the  winding-up  and 


142  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

conversion  of  Tom  Thurnall  slovenly  in  the  extreme. 
No  man  with  an  eye  to  the  perfection  of  his  work  would 
have  interwoven  the  irrelevant  episode  of  Stangrave  and 
CordiHamma.  It  is  entirely  out  of  place,  and  is  very  in- 
terrupting. But  Mr.  Kingsley  wanted  to  say  his  say 
about  slavery  and  America;  lie  liad  a  fine  conception  in 
his  head,  and  some  striking  thoughts  ready  at  his  pen  ; 
so  he  thrust  them  in  where  they  had  no  business,  and 
spoiled  one  story  by  what  would  have  afforded  excellent 
materials  for  another.  But  the  book  is  full  of  interest : 
Grace  is  charming,  though  unnatural ;  Valencia  charm- 
ing, because  natural.  Thomas  Thurnall  is  a  capital  char- 
acter, though  here  and  there  degenerating  into  harsh 
caricature :  a  better  picture  was  never  drawn  of  the  un- 
regenerate,  good,  natural  man,  —  wild,  reckless,  worthy, 
and  affectionate,  —  doing  his  duty,  and  doing  well,  nut 
from  any  conscientiousness  or  religious  faith,  but  from  a 
simple,  ungodly,  innate  love  of  whatever  is  true,  honest, 
fitting,  right,  and  kindly  ;  self-confiding,  bubbling  over 
with  animal  vigor  and  animal  spirits,  very  rough  but 
very  lovable.  The  poet  too,  —  vain,  selfish,  shallow,  and 
unregulated,  but  honorable  and  aspiring,  —  is  well  con- 
ceived, and  is  a  real  and  complete  conception.  As  with 
Hypatia,  we  say  of  this  book,  "  What  a  pity  that  wdiat  is 
so  good  should  not  have  been  better  still ! " 

Before  closing  tliis  paper,  we  have  another  of  j\Ir. 
Kingsley's  deficiencies  to  notice  (their  name  is  Legion, 
our  readers  will  begin  to  think) ;  and  it  is  one  somewhat 
difficult  to  handle,  both  from  its  nature  and  from  its  close 
connection  with  one  of  his  most  signal  merits.  Without 
intending  it,  —  or  it  would  be  more  correct  to  say,  with- 
out being  conscious  of  it,  —  he  is  not  unfrequently 
coarse.  We  are  aware  that  he  would  not  admit  the  im- 
putation, and  that  he  really  believes  himself  to  be  inno- 
cent ;  but  on  questions  of  this  sort  the  common  taste  of 
cultivated  men  and  women  must  decide.  In  his  treat- 
ment of  love  and  the  relation  between  the  sexes,  while 
sometimes  excellent,  he  is  sometimes  also  needlessly 
venturesome  and  grating.     The  plain  truth  is  (and  we 


KINGSLEY  AND   CARLYLE.  143 

may  as  well  speak  out),  that  his  theory  on  this  and  cog- 
nate subjects,  though  we  incline  to  think  it  sound,  is  one 
which  can  only  be  acted  upon  safely  by  writers  whose 
courage  and  whose  feelings  are  under  the  guidance  of  the 
most  sensitively  correct  taste.  He  likes  to  call  things 
by  their  plain  names ;  a  fancy  with  which,  in  modera- 
tion, we  sympathize.  He  thinks,  further,  that  in  treat- 
ing of  the  various  questions  arising  out  of  the  relations 
between  the  sexes,  we  lose  much  and  risk  much  by  a 
mischievous  reticence  and  a  false  and  excessive  delicacy ; 
and  in  this  opinion  also  we  agree  with  him.  But  in  ref- 
erence to  both  these  peculiarities,  his  rampancy  and  dar- 
ing make  him  a  dangerous  ally.  He  rides  so  near  the 
boundary,  that  you  are  in  perpetual  uneasiness  lest  he 
should  pass  it.  His  view  of  love  is,  we  think,  true, 
chaste,  and  noble ;  and  much  needs  to  be  asserted  and 
upheld.  Macaulay  somewhere  says  of  Southey,  tliat  he 
had  no  conception  of  genuine  human  love,  "  that  all  his 
lieroes  made  love  like  seraphim  or  like  cattle."  Mr. 
Kingsley's  heroes  avoid  both  extremes ;  he  proclaims  — 
with  a  courage  which,  in  a  clergyman  especially,  is  above 
all  praise  —  the  rights  of  nature,  and  the  intrinsic  purity 
of  natural  instincts  ;  he  blends,  more  than  any  writer  we 
know,  the  warmth  with  the  nobility  of  passion,  and  is 
resolutely  bent  on  showing  that  the  most  passionate  love 
may  also  be  the  purest,  if  only  it  be  legitimate  in  its  cir- 
cumstances and  worthy  in  its  object.  He  seems  to  have 
almost  grasped  the  grand  cardinal  truth,  that  the  real 
guilt  lies  not  in  mingling  the  gratification  of  passion  with 
the  sentiment*  of  love,  but  in  ever  for  one  moment  per- 
mitting the  former  save  under  the  guidance  and  sanction 
of  the  latter.  But  here  again  that  predominant  appreci- 
ation of  i\\Q  physical,  which  we  have  already  commented 
upon,  is  unpleasantly  manifest ;  the  Sainfs  Tvagedy 
contains  passages  which  the  more  sensitive  taste  of  Mr. 
Kingsley's  friend  and  Mentor  *  would  have  omitted  ;  and 
in  other  of  his  stories,  what  we  may  call  the  "  animal 
magnetism  "  of  love,  in  distinction  to  its  finer  sentiment, 

*  See  the  Preface,  by  Mr.  Maurice. 


14-t  LITEUAKY  AXD  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

is  made  too  much  of,  and  brought  too  pioniiuently  for- 
ward. The  heroines  are  too  sensitive  to  tlie  influence  of 
h)()k  and  toucli ;  the  lieroes  win  them  rather  by  mesmer- 
ism than  by  courtship.  Thei-e  is  an  undoubted  element 
of  fact  in  all  this ;  but  whether  it  be  wise  to  paint  it  so 
strongly,  or  to  dwell  on  it  so  much,  may  well  be  questioned. 

For  the  fierce  denunciation  with  which  Mr.  Kingsley 
assails  the  brutal  ascetics  of  former  times  and  their  puny 
imitators  in  our  own  days,  we  tender  him  our  most  cor- 
dial gratitude  and  admiration.  lie  hates  them  with  a 
truly  holy  hatred.  Asceticism  is  the  form  which  religion 
takes  in  sensual  minds,  and  in  those  weaker  spirits  over 
whom  sensualists  sometimes  exercise  so  fatal  and  degrad- 
ing a  supremacy.  When  we  think  of  the  holy  joys  that 
•have  been  poisoned,  of  the  healthy  souls  that  have  been 
diseased,  of  the  fine  natures  that  have  been  made  coarse, 
of  happy  lives  embittered  and  bright  lives  darkened,  of 
noble  niiuds  overset  and  pure  minds  soiled,  by  the  foul 
fancies  and  the  false  doctrines  which  these  men  have  in- 
vented to  trample  upon  nature  and  to  outrage  all  its 
sweet  humanities,  we  feel  that  no  terms  of  wrath  or  con- 
demnation can  be  too  unmeasured  to  apply  to  them.  The 
strength  and  justice  of  Mr.  Kingsley's  sentiments  on  this 
subject  would  incline  us  perhaps  too  readily  to  pardon 
the  coarseness  observable  in  the  Sainfs  Tragedy  and  in 
iri/patia,  were  they  really  necessary  for  the  purpose  he 
has  in  view,  which  we  do  not  think  they  are. 

We  have  spoken  freely  and  without  stint  of  Mr.  Kings- 
ley's  erroi-s  and  offences,  because  he  is  strong  and  can 
bear  it  well ;  because  he  is  somewhat  pachydermatous, 
and  will  not  feel  it  nmch  ;  because  it  is  well  for  a  man 
who  habitually  speaks  of  others  in  such  outrageous  terms, 
to  have  his  own  measure  occasionally  meted  out  to  him 
in  return;  because,  also,  one  wiio  sins  against  so  much 
light  and  knowledge  deserves  to  be  beaten  with  many 
stripes ;  and  because,  finally,  on  a  previous  occasion  we 
did  such  ample  justice  to  his  merits.  But  we  should 
grieve  to  have  it  believed  that  we  are  insensible  to  his 
remarkable  and  varied  excellences,  or  to  part  from  him 


KIXGSLEY  AXD  CARLYLE.  145 

otherwise  than  in  a  spirit  of  thorough  and  cordial  appre- 
ciation. In  spite  of  much  that  is  rant,  and  of  mucli  that 
would  be  twaddle  if  it  were  not  so  energetic,  there  is  such 
wonderful  go  in  him,  such  exulting  and  abounding  vigor, 
and  he  carries  you  along  with  a  careering  and  facile  rapidity 
which,  while  it  j^uts  you  out  of  breath,  is  yet  so  strangely 
exhilarating,  that  old  and  young  iiever  fail  to  find  pleas- 
lU'e  in  his  pages.  He  may  often  wander,  but  he  never 
sleeps.  He  has,  however,  far  higher  claims  on  our  ad- 
miration than  any  arising  from  these  merely  literary 
merits.  And  in  an  age  like  this,  of  vehement  desires  and 
feeble  wills,  of  so  much  conventionalism  and  so  little 
courage,  —  when  our  favorite  virtue  is  indulgence  to  oth- 
ers, and  our  commonest  vice  is  indulgence  to  self,  —  when 
few  things  are  heartily  loved,  and  fewer  still  are  heart- 
ily believed,  —  when  we  are  slaves  to  what  others  think, 
and  wish,  and  do,  slaves  to  past  creeds  in  which  we  have 
no  longer  faith,  slaves  to  past  habits  in  which  we 
have  no  longer  pleasure,  slaves  to  past  phrases  from 
which  all  tlie  meaning  has  died  out,  —  when  the  ablest 
and  tenderest  minds  are  afraid  to  think  deeply  because 
they  know  not  where  deep  tliought  might  land  them,  and 
are  afraid  to  act  thoroughly  because  they  shrink  from 
what  thorough  action  miglit  entail,  —  when  too  many 
lead  a  life  of  conscious  unworthiness  and  unreality,  because 
surrounded  by  evils  with  which  they  dare  not  grapple, 
and  by  darkness  which  they  dare  not  pierce  ;  —  in  such 
an  age,  amid  such  wants  and  such  shortcomings,  we  owe 
a  deep  debt  of  gratitude  to  a  crusader  like  Mr.  Kingsley, 
whose  faith  is  undoubting,  and  whose  courage  is  imflinch- 
ing;  who  neither  fears  others  nor  mistrusts  himself;  who 
hates  with  a  destructive  and  aggressive  animosity  wliat- 
ever  is  evil,  mean,  filthy,  weak,  hollow,  and  untrue ;  who 
has  drawn  his  sword  and  girded  up  his  loins  for  a  work 
which  cannot  be  passed  by,  and  which  must  not  be  negli- 
gently done  ;  whose  practice  himself,  and  whose  exhorta- 
tion to  others,  is,  in  the  words  of  the  great  German,  — 

"  Im  halben  zu  entwcihnen, 
Im  ganzen,  guten,  ■\vahrun,  resolut  zu  leben." 
7  J 


FEENCH  FICTION" :  THE  LOWEST  DEEP. 

It  is  hard  to  say  whether  the  current  politics  or  the 
current  literature  of  France  conveys  the  more  vivid  im- 
pression of  utter  and  profound  demoralization  ;  —  tlie 
willing  servitude,  the  craven  fear,  the  thirsty  materialism, 
the  absence  of  all  liberal  sentiment  or  noble  aspiration, 
indicated  l)y  the  one,  —  the  abandonment  of  all  self-con- 
trol or  self-respect,  the  surrender  of  all  manliness,  dignity, 
or  reticence,  the  hunger  after  the  most  diseased,  imlioly, 
and  extravagant  excitement,  characteristic  of  the  other,  — 
or  the  intense  and  unrebuked  selfishness,  the  passionate 
and  slavish  worship  of  wealtli  and  power,  which  consti- 
tute the  basis  and  the  soul  of  both  alike.  Of  course  tliere 
are  exceptions  in  literature  as  in  life.  But  we  speak  of 
the  prevalent,  the  almost  universal  tone  ;  we  speak  of  the 
acting,  voting,  deciding,  characterizing  mass  in  the  one 
case,  and  of  the  books  of  the  widest  circulation,  and  the 
writers  of  the  most  popular  repute  and  the  most  signal 
success,  in  the  other.  In  politics  there  still  exist  a  few 
men,  —  fewer,  alas,  each  day,  as  their  numbers  are  thinned 
by  death  or  by  despair,  —  the  salt  of  the  earth,  but  far 
too  scanty  to  give  it  savor,  the  five  righteous  men,  but 
not  enough  to  save  the  city,  —  who  mourn  over  their 

Les  Jlystkes  de  Paris  ;  Atar-Gul.     Par  Eugene  Sue. 

La  Dame  aux  Camelias  ;  Le  Demi-Monde,  un  drama  ;  Le  Roman 
d'une  Femme.     Par  Ale.x.  Dumas,  fils. 

Monte-Cristo.       Par  Alex.  Dumas,  pere. 

Fanny,  une  etude.     Par  Eniest  Feydeau. 
.  Confessions  d'un  Enfant  du  Sieele.'    Par  Alfred  de  Musset. 

Elle  et  Lui,  par  George  Sand.  Lui  et  Elle,  par  Paul  de  Musset.  Lui, 
par  Mme.  Louise  Collet. 


FRENCH  FICTION.  147 


degradation  and  resent  their  shame,  who,  "rowing  hard 
against  the  stream,"  strive  manfully,  and  strive  to  the 
last,  to  warn  their  countrymen  and  to  purify  and  rouse 
their  country.*  But  the  national  life,  the  political  aspect 
of  France,  is  undeniably  what  we  have  described  it :  the 
vast  majority  of  the  people  in  nearly  every  class,  lost  to 
all  sense  of  personal  dignity  or  public  justice,  is  devoted 
to  the  pursuit  of  wealth  and  luxury,  and  ready  to  acquiesce 
in  any  regime  and  to  worship  any  ruler  that  fosters  this 
pursuit ;  and  questions  or  kicks  against  despotism  only 
when,  in  a  momentary  aberration  of  far-siglitedness,  it 
touches  their  innnediate  purse  ;  —  while  even  the  con- 
stitutionalists, as  they  term  themselves,  —  the  liberal 
frondcurs,  —  are  far  more  angry  at  us  for  fraternizing 
with  their  despot  than  with  themselves  for  tolerating  and 
enthroning  him,  and  hate  him  almost  more  bitterly  for  the 
unintentional  aid  he  has  rendered  to  Italian  liberties  than 
for  his  cynical,  perfidious,  and  sanguinary  extinction  of 
their  own.  So  in  literature  —  especially  in  that  branch 
of  it  in  which  alone  there  is  or  can  be  much  activity  at 
present,  and  with  which  we  are  now  more  immediately 
concerned,  the  literature  of  fiction  —  there  are  still  a  few 
writers  who  vainly  offer  to  their  countrymen  from  time 
to  time  a  repast  refined  in  tone  and  irreproachable  in 
taste  and  morals ;  but  the  public  appetite  has  been  too 
long  and  too  deeply  vitiated  to  appreciate  what  is  natural 
and  pure,  and  turns  away  with  a  contempt  which  is  almost 
loathing  from  dishes  unseasoned  .by  the  voluptuous,  the 
morbid,  or  the  monstrous.  From  time  to  time  noble  and 
.sound  criticism  appears  in  the  more  respectable  reviews 
and  journals,  but  it  is  powerless  to  alter  tlie  demand  or 
to  arrest  the  supply  of  the  article  the  public  asks  for^, 
the  novels  which  are  for  the  most  part  popular — the 
only  ones  that  are  run  after,  the  only  ones  that  j7«?/  either 
in  fame  or  money  —  are  exclusively  those  which  pander 
to  the  worst  passions  and  the  worst  taste  ;  till,  without 
exaggeration,  it  is  as  rare  to  find  a  successful  French  novel 
that  is  not  scandalous  as  an  English  one  that  is. 

*  Written  in  1860. 


148  •LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

French  fiction,  always  moro  or  less  diseased  and  in- 
decorous, lias  in  recent  years  passed  through  several  dis- 
tinct pliases  of  disease,  and  may  now  almost  be  said  to 
liave  left  simple  indecorum  far  behind.  Had  it  continued 
to  exhibit  merely  its  normal  features  of  ordinary  license 
and  volu})tuousness,  there  would  have  been  little  teni])ta- 
tion  to  apjiroach  the  subject,  and  every  motive  to  avoid 
it.  That  phase  of  it  has  been  often  enough  animadverted 
upon  in  English  publications ;  no  pleasure  could  be  de- 
rived from  its  contemplation,  and  no  new  lessons  could 
be  drawn  from  its  analysis.  But  since  we  first  began  to  be 
acquainted  with  it,  a  change,  or  rather  a  succession  of 
changes,  has  come  over  it,  so  strange,  so  repellent,  and 
in  some  respects  so  appalling,  that  some  instruction,  at 
least  in  the  way  of  warning,  may  be  hoped  for  from 
studying  it  in  a  right  spirit ;  and  it  presents  too  marked 
and  too  extraordinary  a  psychological  phenomenon  to  be 
ignored  by  any  who  desire  to  understand  or  penetrate  the 
true  aspect  of  their  age.  No  such  field  was  ever  oH'ered 
to  the  students  of  moral  pathology  before. 

But  in  proceeding  to  treat  of  it,  we  are  met  on  the 
threshold  by  an  inherent  and  insuperable  difficulty. 
Christian  writers  who  endeavored  to  depict  the  moral 
renovation  which  the  religion  of  their  great  Master 
wrought  in  the  world,  and  to  deduce  thence  prool's  of 
its  excellence  and  its  divinity,  complain  that  they  labor 
under  this  disadvantage ;  that  it  is  impossible  ibr  them 
to  paint  in  true  colors  and  to  describe  in  plain  language 
the  horrible  demoralization  which  Christianity  cured  and 
purged  away,  simply  because  no  modern  society  would 
,tolerate  the  delineation.  They  cannot  give  an  adequate 
'conception  of  the  contrast,  because  they  are  compelled, 
out  of  very  decency  and  mercy,  to  soften  down  the  daiker 
and  mnre  hideous  features  of  the  decaying  times  of  Bome, 
Byzantium,  or  Alexandria.  They  cannot  make  us  under- 
stand" what  Cliristianity  did,  because  they  dare  not  tell 
\is  nakedly  what  Paganism  iras.  Something  of  the  same 
embarrassment  besets  us  in  dealing  with  our  present  sub- 
ject.    "We  shall  have  to  speak  of  french  fiction  without 


FRENCH  FICTION,  149 


being  able  to  show  thorouglily  what  it  is.  We  shall  have 
to  analyze  its  elements  and  its  sonrces  without  being  able 
adequately  to  exemplify  or  prove  the  correctness  of  our 
diagnosis  by  the  most  flagrant  and  conclusive  s])ecimens. 
We  shall  have  to  use  the  strongest  language  and  to  pro- 
nounce the  most  unmeasured  condemnation,  while  we 
are  precluded  by  the  very  nature  of  the  case  from  justi- 
fying the  sentence  by  adducing  and  detailing  before  our 
readers  the  most  heinous  of  the  offences  which  have 
called  it  forth. 

There  is  yet  another  difficulty.  The  fact  which  forms 
the  basis  of  nearly  all  the  tales  and  romances  on  which 
we  shall  have  to  animadvert,  is  the  habitual  prevalence 
in  France  of  those  lawless  loves,  and,  worse  still,  those 
liaisons  where  no  love  is,  which  English  fiction  is  —  or 
used  to  be  —  forbidden  to  describe  and  almost  to  allude 
to.  Of  course  we  are  too  well  aware  that  such  things 
are  far  from  being  unknown  among  ourselves,  but  at 
least  they  have  no  recognized  existence :  wisely  or  un- 
wisely, they  are  usually  ignored  both  in  general  society 
and  in  literature  designed  for  general  reading ;  the  nov- 
elist may  not  work  them  up  as  a  part  of  his  ordinary 
stock  in  trade ;  the  critic,  even  if  he  have  an  aesthetic  or 
an  ethical  aim  in  view,  must  speak  of  them  only  in  veiled 
language  and  with  much  periphrasis.  In  England  they 
are  not  regarded  as  legitimate  materials  for  the  excite- 
ment of  interest  or  the  development  of  character :  if  the 
writer  of  fiction  uses  them  at  all,  lie  is  obliged  to  use 
them  with  the  utmost  reticence  and  moderation  ;  whereas 
the  French  romancer  rarely  dreams  of  dispensing  with 
them,  and  often  relies  on  little  else  for  the  construction 
of  his  plot  or  the  fascination  of  his  tale.  With  us  all 
such  violations  of  the  moral  and  the  social  law  meet  with 
the  severest  and  most  unqualified  condemnation :  long 
may  it  continue  so,  provided  only  the  condemnation  be 
sincere,  consistent,  and  free  from  all  taint  of  unholy  or 
malignant  pharisaism.  Among  our  neighbors  a  far  more 
lax  and  lenient  view  is  taken  of  such  transgressions; 
they  are  classed  among  the  common  and  nearly  unavoid- 


150  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

al)le  frailties  of  a  nature  never  perfect  and  seldom  strong; 
in  ordinary  liie  and  ordinary.fiction  they  call  forth  only 
gentle  blame,  faint  regret,  and  no  surprise.  This  being 
the  case,  we  must  to  a  certain  extent  accept,  or  at  least 
recognize,  the  point  of  view  of  the  writers  and  readers 
of  the  society  of  which  we  speak ;  that  is  to  say,  without 
for  one  moment  admitting  that  their  estimate  of  illicit 
passion  is  a  just  one,  we  must  allow  that  it  is  the  usual 
and  accepted  one  among  them,  before  we  proceed  to  draw 
warning  and  instruction  from  observing  to  what  lengths 
this  fatal  license  has  conducted  the  light  literature  of 
their  country.  We  have  only,  as  a  preliminary,  to  clear 
our  path  by  asking  our  readers  to  understand,  once  for 
all,  that,  as  the  normal  prevalence  of  the  errors  or  vices 
or  frailties  in  question  (however  we  may  choose  to  desig- 
nate them)  is  assumed  by  all  the  literature  we  are  about 
to  estimate,  it  must  be  assumed  likewise  by  ourselves. 

The  inspiration  of  French  fiction,  the  source  from 
which  flow  half  its  deformities,  its  vile  morality,  and  its 
vitiated  taste,  is  the  craving  for  excitement  that  has  so 
long  been  characteristic  of  the  nation.  It  is  not  difficult 
to  see  how  this  craving  has  been  stimulated  and  nour- 
ished till  it  has  grown  into  a  passion  that  will  take  no 
denial  and  knows  no  satiety.  Two  generations  of  cease- 
less revolution,  of  dazzling  conquests  and  bewildering 
defeats,  of  alternations  of  wild  frenzy  and  prostrate  de- 
pression, of  vicissitudes  as  strange,  as  rapid,  as  extreme 
as  any  to  be  witnessed  at  the  gaming-table,  have  goaded 
what  was  always  a  desire  into  an  imperious  necessity. 
The  present  race  of  Frenchmen,  and  their  fathers  even 
more,  were  born  and  bred  amid  scenes  and  deeds  which 
made  the  battle  of  life  a  confused  and  desperate  melee, 
the  race  of  life  a  feverish  scurry,  the  banquet  of  life  a 
dish  of  mere  spice,  alcohol,  and  pepper.  Glance  back 
for  a  moment  over  the  first  magnificent  convulsion  of 
1789.  Call  to  mind  all  the  stirring  and  disturl)ing 
thoughts  of  emancipation  and  of  progress  which  the 
writers  of  that  day  had  been  diligently  instilling  into 
the  popular  brain,  till  half  a  century  of  new  ideas  acting 


FRENCH  FICTION.  151 


on  five  centuries  of  old  oppressions  wrought  a  fermenta- 
tion which  found  issue  an^  utterance  in  such  an  over- 
throw of  established  notions  and  established  things  as 
the  world  had  never  witnessed  since  its  birth.  Grand 
and  generous  dreams  of  indefinite  improvement ;  fierce 
and  selfish  longings  for  satisfying  vengeance ;  the  pros- 
pect of  a  new  era ;  the  fancy  of  a  heaven  realized  on 
earth ;  that  universal  liberation  from  all  bonds,  and  al- 
most from  all  obedience,  that  sweei^ing  disbelief  or  doubt 
as  to  every  settled  axiom  of  religion,  of  morals,  and  of 
law,  which  is  so  unhinging  even  to  trained  and  philo- 
sophic minds,  and  which  was  then  diffused  over  all  the 
uneducated  intelligence  and  turbulent  sensibility  of 
France  ;  the  sudden  overthrow,  nay,  the  actual  disappear- 
ance, in  little  more  .than  a  year,  of  the  aristocracy,  the 
monarchy,  the  Church,  —  of  all,  in  a  word,  that  men  had 
been  accustomed  to  reverence  or  fear ;  the  king  and  the 
noble  cast  down,  the  serf  and  the  valet  lifted  up  ;  the  first 
last,  and  the  last  first.  Amid  excitements  so  tremendous 
as  these,  what  simple  or  quiet  tastes  could  grow  up  or 
survive  ?  After  stimulants  like  these,  how  could  the 
relish  for  a  pure  milk  diet  be  recovered  ?  Then  followed 
reaction  and  disenchantment  as  extreme  as  the  wild  hopes 
which  they  replaced,  —  the  guillotine,  the  prison  massa- 
cres, the  Eeign  of  Terror ;  and  to  the  excitement  of  pas- 
sionate aspirations  succeeded  the  more  absorbing  and 
degrading  excitement  of  a  deadly  fear.  No  one  wdio  has 
not  studied  tliat  terrible  period  in  detail  can  form  an 
idea  of  the  depth  to  which  its  influence  penetrated  into 
the  national  life.  Simultaneously  with  this  phase,  but 
prolonged  beyond  it,  came  the  marvellous  victories  of 
the  half-clad,  half-disciplined  troops,  poured  forth  to  tlie 
frontiers  by  the  Convention  and  the  Directory ;  followed 
by  the  early  and  brilliant  conquests  of  the  young  Na- 
poleon, when  every  post  brought  tidings  of  some  new 
achievement ;  and  terminated  by  the  coujy-de-main  which 
made  him  supreme  ruler  of  an  exhausted  and  admiring 
nation.  For  a  while  there  was  comparative  quiet,  as  the 
work  of  reconstruction  succeeded  that  of  abolition.    But, 


152  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

as  if  ten  years  of  such  convulsions  had  not  sufliced  to 
demoralize  the  nation,  they  \vere  to  he  continued  and 
crowned  by  fourteen  years  of  another  sort  of  leAerish 
excitement,  diilerent,  indeed,  but  almost  more  disturbing. 
In  this  point  of  view,  as  in  most  others,  the  reign  of 
Napoleon  was  an  irreparable  mischief  to  his  country. 
His  triumphal  march  over  Europe  —  so  rapid,  so  resist- 
less, and  so  sure,  that  every  month  seemed  barren,  dull, 
and  idle  that  did  not  inaugurate  a  new  victory  and  annex 
a  ncAV  realm  —  made  all  sober  careers  stupid  and  mo- 
notonous. Years  .spent  in  feverish  expectation  and  in 
frantic  jubilee  demoralize  the  rest  of  life.  The  Eussian 
campaign,  the  Euroj^ean  coalition,  the  desperate  struggle 
of  1813,  the  abdication,  the  almost  fabulous  recovery, 
the  final  catastrophe  of  AVaterloo  and  St.  Helena,  kept 
lip  and  enhanced  the  mad  excitement.  Henceforward 
tame  and  ordinary  existence  became  unendurable  to 
Erenchmen,  except  during  brief  moments  of  absolute 
exhaustion;  and  the  revolution  of  1830,  the  republic  of 
1848,  the  terrible  days  of  June,  the  covp-cletat,  and  the 
second  empire,  seemed  natiu'al  and  normal  occurrences 
in  such  a  history,  —  the  inevitable  sequels  of  such  a  tur- 
bulent and  stormy  past. 

Infancy,  youth,  and  manhood  spent  among  scenes  like 
these  leave  indelible  traces  on  a  people's  life.  The  whole 
soil  of  the  national  character  is  stamped  and  interi^ene- 
trated  by  the  overmastering  influences ;  and  it  may  be 
said,  in  a  far  nobler  sense  than  that  originally  intended 
by  the  poet,  that 

"  Where  .sucli  fairies  once  have  danced 
'  No  grass  will  ever  grow." 

The  operation  on  literature  is  twofold :  in  the  first  place, 
readers  find  any  less  stirring  incidents  or  less  violent 
emotions  feeble,  tame,  and  unexciting  ;  and,  in  the  second 
place,  writers  find  in  the  familiar  realities  of  their  annals, 
in  the  tlnilling  crises  and  the  terrible  catastrophes  from 
which  the  country  has  but  just  emerged,  and  in  the 
thousand  individual  histories  and  adventures  mixed  up 
with   them,   a   quarry   of  materials   for   romance    with 


FRENCH  FICTION.  153 


which,  for  richness  and  effectiveness,  no  mere  fiction  can 
compare,  and  which  the  most  bold  and  fertile  invention 
would  find  it  difficult  to  match.  The  same  circumstan- 
ces enabled  the  authors,  to  supply  without  stint  or  meas- 
ure what  they  have  educated  tlie  audience  imperiously  to 
require.  Accordingly  this  teeming  mine  has  been  assid- 
uously worked  by  the  novelists  of  France ;  and  the 
national  craving  for  stimulants  lias  thus  been  fed  and 
fostered  without  being  quenched  or  cured,  —  for  that  sort 
of  thirst  is  never  slaked.  The  time  came  when  even 
stories  seasoned  with  all  the  quick  convulsions  and  lurid 
horrors  of  the  Eevolution  and  the  lieign  of  Terror  began 
to  pall.  The  demand  remained.  Something  fresh  and 
something  stronger  must  be  contrived  to  meet  it.  The 
unhealthy  appetite  —  ra\'enous  because  unhetilthy  —  be- 
came clamorous  for  more ;  like  the  voluptuous  despot,  it 
offered  a  reward  for  a  new  sensation,  a  new  pleasure,  a 
new  dish  ;  and,  as  in  that  case,  since  the  genuine  and  the 
natural  was  exhausted,  the  monstrous  and  the  impure 
must  be  resorted  to. 

The  first  mine  worked  was,  as  might  be  expected,  the 
licentious.  Voluptuous  pictures  of  illicit  love,  in  all  its 
phases  and  in  all  its  stages  of  progress,  constantly  ap- 
proaching the  limits  of  decency  and  often  overstepping 
them,  offered  at  once  the  most  natural  and  the  most  vul- 
gar source  of  excitement  for  the  jaded  appetite  and  the 
perverted  taste.  Every  one  could  understand  them ; 
every  one  could  take  an  interest  in  them.  Descriptions 
of  a  sin  —  the  sin  being  forbidden  by  good  morals,  and 
the  description  of  it  being,  forbidden  by  good  society  — 
presented  all  the  attractions  of  a  double  lawlessness,  in 
addition  to  their  native  charm.  But  these  were  so  easy 
and  became  so  common,  the  ordinary  forms  of  them 
were  so  soon  exhausted-  and  so  certainly  and  rapidly 
palled  by  repetition,  and  the  boundaries  of  the  permissi- 
ble were  so  soon  reached,  that  success  could  only  be 
achieved  by  something  that  was  extraordinary  and  there- 
fore bordered  on  the  unnatural,  by  sonjething  that  was 
unpermissible  and  therefore  degenerated  into  the  atro- 
7* 


154  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS.' 

cious  and  revolting.  Each  writer  had  to  surpass  his 
predecessor,  —  to  sny  something  still  more  shocking,  to 
conceive  sometliing  still  more  shameful,  to  push  daring  a 
few  steps  I'urtlicr,  to  raise  the  drapery  of  delicacy  and 
decorum  a  few  inches  higher,  to  uncover  the  nakedness 
of  poor  humanity  a  little  more  completely  and  a  little 
more  offensively.  The  consequences  may  easily  be  fan- 
cied ;  in  a  race  of  this  sort  there  is  no  absolute  goal,  or 
rather  the  goal  is  perpetually  receding ;  but  the  rival 
candidates  run  very  fast  and  very  far. 

Nearly  all  the  French  novelists  of  the  present  genera- 
tion have  been  habitually  and  flagrantly  guilty  in  this 
respect;  but  perhaps  the  most  distinctive  example  of 
this  phase  of  mental  and  moral  unhealthiness  may  be 
seen  in  the  earlier  tales  of  George  Sand,  who  is  the  type, 
though  not  the  chief,  of  sinners.  Xo  writer,  so  capable 
of  painting  the  sentiment,  has  stained  her  pages  more 
deeply  with  pictures  of  the  ajjpetite  of  love.  With,  a 
style  which  for  poetry  and  beaut}',  and  affluence  in  all 
the  brightest  coloring  of  nature,  has  had  no  equal  since 
Eousseau,  she  has  dedicated  it  to  the  production  of 
scenes  which  Rousseau  would  have  despised  as  an  artist 
and  shrunk  from  as  a  moralist.  For  a  brief  space  she 
seemed  about  to  emerge  from  the  mire,  and  to  be  pruning 
and  cleaning  her  M'ings  for  higher  flights  and  for  a  purer 
air ;  and  Consudo  and  La  Petite  Faddte  were  the  re- 
sult of  this  excursion  into  good;  but  she  has  relapsed 
again,  and  Indiana,  Valentine,  and  Leone  Leoni  still 
remain  as  the  most  native  productions  of  her  genius,  and 
the  best  specimens  of  the  literary  vice  we  are  describing. 
Of  course  we  can  give  no  quotations,  nor  should  we  have 
dwelt  upon  the  subject  at  all  except  as  the  first  step 
towards  the  frightful  degree  of  disease  which  French  fic- 
tion has  now  reached. 

After  a  while,  however,  this  species  of  stimulant  began 
to  pall,  and  a  new  spice  was  introduced.  The  melodra- 
matic and  the  horrible  was  superadded  to  tlie  voluptuous. 
But  the  nicrcbj  horrible  would  have  been  trite  and  pow- 


FRENCH  FICTIOX.  155 


eriess.  MiuxIpi-s,  suicides,  torture-chambers,  and  scaffolds 
were  exhausted  and  dried  up  as  sources  of  excitement, 
unless  some  fresh  element  could  be  infused,  or  some 
change  rung  upon  the  wearied  chord.  This  was  found  in 
the  prolongation  of  the  horror,  —  in  the  indefinite  tension 
of  the  strained  nerve.  Pain,  terror,  anguish,  struggle,  — 
commonplace  and  endurable  when  lasting  only  a  few 
moments, —  began  to  tell  when  continued  through  whole 
pages,  and  spun  out  through  frightful  and  breathless 
hours.  The  author  in  whose  writings  this  peculiar  type 
of  excitement  most  frequently  recurs  is  Victor  Hugo. 
He  has  worked  tliis  mine  through  its  every  vein  with  un- 
relenting industry.  In  Biuj-Jargal  he  gives  us  a  scene 
wherein  the  hero,  a  captive  and  disarmed,  is  left  at  the 
edge  of  a  fearful  chasm  with  his  mortal  enemy,  a  de- 
formed and  malignant  negro  dwarf,  who  is  preparing  to 
slay  him ;  but  who,  before  doing  so,  reviles  and  taunts 
him  through  a  whole  chapter.  After  a  rescue  and  re- 
lapse, they  are  again  alone :  the  dwarf  rushes  upon  his 
victim,  D'Auverney,  with  a  poniard ;  D'Auverney  slips 
aside,  and  the  dwarf  falls  into  the  abyss.  To  have  ended 
matters  here,  however,  would  have  been  a  waste  of  valu- 
able materials.     Accordingly  the  author  proceeds  :  — 

"  I  told  you  that  a  root  of  the  old  tree  projected  from  a 
crevice  in  the  granite  rock,  just  above  the  margin  of  the 
chasm.  The  dwarf  encountered  this  in  his  fall ;  his  tunic 
caught  in  the  root,  and  seizing  hold  of  this  last  support,  he 
clung  to  it  with  extraordinary  energy.  His  pointed  cap  fell 
off  his  head ;  he  let  go  his  poniard,  which  was  lost  in  the 
depths  of  the  abyss.  Suspended  thus  over  the  horrible  gulf, 
Habibrah  made  convulsive  efFoi'ts  to  regain  the  platform  ;  but 
his  short  arms  were,  unable  to  reach  the  edge  of  the  escarp- 
ment, and  his  nails  were  torn  in  his  impotent  exertions  to  lay 
hold  on  the  slippery  surface  of  the  overhanging  rock.  He 
howled  with  rage. 

"  The  least  shake  on  my  part  would  have  suificed  to  have 
precipitated  him  into  the  roaring  chasm ;  but  the  idea  of 
such  a  cowardly  act  never  crossed  my  mind.  This  modera- 
tion seemed  to  strike  him.  I  thanked  Heaven  for  my  unhoped- 
for delivei'ance,  and  prepared  to  abandon  him  to  the  fate  he 


15G  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

so  richly  merited,  when  I  licard  Iiis  voice,  wretched  and  im- 
ploring, calling  to  me  from  the  gnlf. 

"  '  Master,  master  ! '  he  said,  '  for  pity's  sake  don't  go  !  In 
the  name  of  the  good  God,  don't  leave  a  guilty  and  impeni- 
tent wretch,  whom  you  can  save,  to  die  this  miserable  death  ! 
Alas,  my  strength  is  failing,  the  branch  slips  and  yields  under 
my  hands;  my  weight  is  dragging  me  down;  in  an  instant  I 
shall  lose  my  grasp,  and  the  hoiTible  abyss  is  raging  beneath 
me.  Have  yoii  no  mercy  on  your  poor  dwarf?  Won't  you 
prove  to  him  that  white  men  arc  better  than  black,  and  mas- 
ters more  generous  than  slaves  1 ' 

"  I  was  moved,  and  returned  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice  : 
the  dim  light,  as  I  looked  down,  showed  me  the  hideous  face 
of  the  negro,  with  an  expression  of  entreaty  and  agonized 
distress  which  I  had  never  seen  there  before. 

" '  Seiior  Leopold,'  he  continued,  encouraged  by  the  pity 
•which  I  could  not  altogether  hide,  '  is  it  possible  tlaat  a  man 
can  see  a  fellow-creature  in  this  frightful  situation  and  not 
help  him  1  Master,  stretch  me  out  a  hand,  —  so  little  will 
save  me ;  and  what  is  nothing  to  you  is  everything  to  me. 
Drag  me  up,  for  pity's  sake,  and  my  gratitude  shall  be  equal 
to  my  ci'imes.' 

"'ATretch!'  I  exclaimed,  'recall  not  the  recollection  of 
them,  I  warn  you.' 

"  'If  I  do,  it  is  only  to  detest  them.  0,  be  more  generous 
than  I  was  !  0  Heaven,  I  am  failing !  I  am  going !  Give 
mc  your  hand,  —  your  hand,  in  the  name  of  the  mother  who 
bore  you.' 

"I  cannot  describe  how  lamentable  and  dechirant  was  this 
cry  of  terror  and  of  suffering.  I  forgot  all  that  had  passed, 
and  saw  in  him  no  longer  an  enemy,  a  traitor,  an  assassin, 
but  only  a  wretch  w^hom  a  slight  exertion  of  mine  could  res- 
cue from  a  dreadful  death.  He  begged  so  piteously,  and  re- 
proach would  have  been  so  idle  !  I  bent  down,  and  kneeling 
on  the  edge  of  the  chasm,  with  one  arm  round  the  tree  of 
which  the  root  half  sustained  the  miserable  Habibrah,  I 
stretched  do\vn  to  him  the  other.  He  seized  it  with  pi'o- 
digious  streng-th  in  both  of  his ;  but  far  from  using  it  to 
endeavor  to  ascend,  1  felt  that  he  was  seeking  to  drag  me 
with  him  into  the  gulf;  and  but  for  the  support  of  the  tree 
to  which  I  was  clinging,  I  should  have  been  infallibly  ovez-- 
powcred  by  the  sudden  and  violent  i^ull  which  the  wretch 
gave  me. 


FRENCH  FICTION.  157 


"  '  Villain  ! '  I  exclaimed,  '  what  arc  j'ou  about  1 ' 

"  '  I  am  avenging  mj-self,'  he  replied  with  an  infernal  burst 
of  laughter.  '  Imbecile  animal !  I  have  you  fast :  you  have 
given  yourself  to  me.  I  "was  lost ;  you  wei'C  saved  :  you 
have  been  ass  enough  to  venture  voluntarily  into  the  jaws  of 
the  alligatoi',  because  it  groaned  after  having  roared.  I  am 
comforted  now,  since  my  death  even  is  a  vengeance.  You 
have  fallen  into  the  snare,  and  now  I  shall  have  a  human 
companion  among  the  fishes  of  the  lake.' 

"  '  Traitor  ! '  I  answered,  stretching  myself  back  ;  '  is  it 
thus  3'ou  reward  me  for  endeavoring  to  save  your  life  1 ' 

"  '  Yes,'  he  answered  ;  '  I  know  I  might  have  saved  myself 
by  your  aid,  but  I  pi'efer  that  you  should  die  with  me.  I 
like  your  death  better  than  my  life.     Come  ! ' 

"  With  this  explanation  his  two  hard  bronzed  hands  fas- 
tened upon  mine  with  a  tremendous  grasp  ;  his  eyes  flared ; 
his  month  foamed ;  his  strength,  whose  loss  a  moment  ago 
he  had  so  piteously  deplored,  returned  to  him,  augmented  by 
the  fury  of  revenge ;  he  set  his  feet  like  two  levers  against 
the  side  of  the  rock,  and  bounded  about  like  a  tiger  on  the 
root  which  still  supported  him,  and  which  he  endeavored  to 
break,  that  his  weight  might  the  more  surely  drag  me  down 
with  him  into  the  abyss,  laughiyg  all  the  time  with  the  fran- 
tic laugh  of  a  demoniac.  One  of  my  knees  was  fortunately 
fast  in  a  crevice  of  the  rock ;  my  arm  was  in  a  manner  fixed 
to  the  tree  round  which  I  clung ;  and  I  struggled  against  the 
efforts  of  the  dwarf  with  all  the  despairing  energy  of  self-pres- 
ervation. From  time,  to  time,  as  I  could  collect  breath,  I 
called  loudly  on  Bug-Jargal ;  but  the  noise  of  the  waterfall 
left  me  little  expectation  of  being  heard. 

''  Meanwhile  the  dwarf,  who  had  not  anticipated  so  much 
resistance,  redoubled  his  efforts,  and  wore  me  out  with  a 
series  of  furious  tugs.  I  began  to  lose  my  strength ;  my  arm 
was  almost  paralyzed  with  cramp ;  my  sight  began  to  fail ; 
livid  lights  danced  before  my  eyes ;  my  ears  tingled  with 
strange  sounds ;  I  heard  the  root  cracking  before  it  finally 
gave  way,  and  the  monster  laughing  and  howling  immediately 
below  me.  In  a  last  effort  of  despair  I  called,  '  Bug-Jargal ! ' 
once  more,  and  was  answered  by  the  barking  of  a  dog.  I 
turned  my  eyes  :  Bug-Jai-gal  and  his  faithful  animal  were  at 
the  entrance  of  the  subteiTanean  passage.  He  saw  my  dan- 
ger at  a  glance.     '  Hold  for  a  moment  more,'  he  cried.    Habi- 


158  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

brah,  maddened  by  my  prospect  of  salvation,  and  foaming 
with  rage,  called  out,  *  Come  !  I  say,  come  ! '  and  collected 
for  a  last  pull  his  preternatural  vigor.  My  wearied  arm  lost 
its  hold  of  the  tree  ;  one  moment  more  and  I  was  gone,  when 
I  was  sci/cd  fi'om  behind  by  Rask.  His  timely  aid  saved  me. 
Habibrali,  exhausted  by  his  final  effort,  let  go  my  hand,  the 
root  on  which  })e  leaned  broke  beneath  his  weight  ;  and  as 
Kasic  drew  me  violently  back,  the  wretched  dwarf,  screaming 
out  a  parting  curse,  fell  back  into  the  horrible  abyss, 
"  Tliis  was  the  end  of  my  uncle's  jester." 

A  similar  scene  is  depicted  witli  even  greater  poM-er  in 
Notre  Dame  dc  Paris,  the  clicf-cVoeuvrc  of  Victor  Hugo. 
A  beautiful  gypsy-girl,  Esmeralda,  —  loved  reverentially 
by  (Quasimodo,  a  deformed,  deaf,  one-eyed  dwarf,  loved 
sensually  by  the  priest  of  Notre  Dame,  whose  attempts 
she  had  repulsed,  —  is  being  hung  in  the  Place  de  la 
Greve,  having  been  betrayed  to  death  by  the  humiliated 
and  vindictive  priest.  Quasimodo  and  the  priest  are 
kneeling  on  the  highest  balustrade  of  the  tower  of  the 
cathedral,  vratching  the  dying  convulsions  of  the  wretched 
girl,  —  the  one  with  agonized  sympathy,  the  other  with 
diabolical  joy. 

"  At  the  moment  when  the  struggles  of  the  dying  girl  were 
the  most  horrible,  a  demoniacal  laugh  —  a  laugh  such  as  a 
man  cannot  utter  till  he  has  put  off  humanity  —  burst  forth 
on  the  livid  countenance  of  the  priest.  Quasimodo  could  not 
hear  the  laugh,  but  he  saw  it.  He  stepped  back  a  pace  or 
two  behind  him,  and  then  rushing  furiously  upon  him,  hurled 
the  wretched  archdeacon  over  the  edge  of  the  balustrade. 

"  The  priest  exclaimed,  '  Damnation  ! '  and  fell.  The  stone 
gutter,  over  which  he  had  been  kneeling,  arrested  him  in  his 
fall.  He  clung  to  it  with  a  despairing  grasp,  and  was  about 
to  utter  a  second  ciy,  when  he  looked  up  and  saw  above  him 
the  vengeful  f;ice  of  Quasimodo.     Then  he  became  silent. 

"  The  abyss  was  below  him,  —  a  f;ill  of  two  hundred  feet, 
and  then  the  pavement.  In  this  hoi-rible  position,  the  arch- 
deacon spoke  not  a  word,  uttered  not  a  groan.  He  only 
twisted  himself  on  the  gutter  in  frantic  efforts  to  climb  up 
again  ;  but  his  hands  had  no  hold  on  the  smooth  granite,  and 
his  feet  only  scraped  the  wall  without  helping  him.     Those 


FRENCH  FICTION.  159 


who  have  mounted  the  towers  of  Notre  Danie  may  remember 
a  stone  projection  uTimediately  under  the  hahistrade.  It  was 
on  this  projection  that  the  miserable  priest  exhausted  all  his 
strength  in  endeavoring  to  gain  a  footing,  but  in  vain. 

"  Quasimodo  might  have  resciied  him  from  his  impending 
fate  by  simply  stretching  out  his  hand  ;  but  he  did  not  even 
look  at  him.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  Place  de  la  (jreve,  the 
gibbet,  and  the  gypsy-girl.  He  leaned  against  the  precise 
stone  of  the  balustrade  where  the  priest  had  kneeled  a  mo- 
ment before ;  and  there  gazing  mute  and  motionless  on  the 
only  object  the  world  contained  for  him,  he  stood  like  a  man 
struck  by  lightning,  while  tears  flowed  silently  and  fast  from 
his  single  eye. 

"  The  archdeacon  panted  for  breath.  His  bald  forehead 
streamed  with  perspiration  ;  his  nails  were  torn  by  the  stone  ; 
his  knees  were  excoriated  by  the  rough  wall.  He  heard  his 
surplice,  which  had  catight  upon  the  gutter,  crack  and  tear  at 
each  fresh  struggle.  To  complete  the  horror  of  his  situation, 
the  gutter  ended  in  a  leaden  pipe,  wdiich  already  began  to 
bend  under  his  weight.  The  archdeacon  felt  it  slowly  sink- 
ing under  him.  The  miserable  man  said  to  himself  that, 
when  his  hands  should  be  paralyzed  with  fxtigue,  when  his 
surplice  should  be  quite  torn,  when  the  lead  should  have  al- 
together given  way,  he  must  fall,  and  indescribable  terror 
seized  upon  his  soul.  From  time  to  time  he  looked  down 
upon  a  small  platform  about  ten  feet  below  him,  formed  by 
some  broken  stones  and  sculptured  figures,  and  besought 
Heaven  in  his  agony  to  let  him  pass  his  whole  life  on  this 
space  of  two  feet  square,  rather  than  die  this  fearful  death. 
Once  he  looked  down  on  the  pavement  of  the  Place,  far,  fixr 
beneath  ;  and  when  he  raised  his  head  his  hair  was  standing 
on  end  with  horror. 

"  The  silence  of  these  two  men  was  something  terrible. 
While  the  priest  was  struggling  in  this  frightful  fashion,  a 
few  feet  above  him  Quasimodo  gazed  at  the  scaffold  and  wept. 

"  The  archdeacon  at  last,  seeing  that  all  his  struggles  only 
served  to  shake  the  frail  support  to  which  he  clung,  lay  per- 
fectly still.  He  was  there,  holding  by  the  gutter,  scarcely 
breathing,  never  moving,  giving  no  other  sign  of  life  than  the 
convulsive  twitchings  of  the  dreamer  who  dreams  that  he  is 
falling.  His  eyes  were  wide  open,  fixed,  and  seemed  starting- 
out  of  his  head.     Little  by  little  he  lost  ground,  his  fingers 


IGO  LITERACY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

slipped  along  the  gutter,  the  lead  gradually  bent  further  and 
further,  and  he  became  increasingly  conscious  of  the  weight 
of  his  body  and  the  weakness  of  his  arms.  He  looked  one 
by  one  at  the  impassive  figures  sculptured  on  the  tower,  like 
him  suspended  over  the  abyss,  but  without  pity  for  him  or 
terror  for  themselves.  Everything  was  stone  around  ;  before 
his  eyes  grotesque  and  monstrous  heads,  far  below  him  at  the 
bottom  the  pavement  of  the  square,  just  above  him  Quasi- 
modo weeping. 

"  In  the  Place  below  were  some  groups  of  curious  oljscrv- 
crs,  who  were  quietly  watching  the  struggles  of  the  priest, 
and  trying  to  guess  who  was  tlie  madman  that  amused  him- 
self with  such  strange  and  perilous  antics.  The  priest  heard 
their  comments  as  their  faint  clear  voices  reached  him  in  the 
still  air,  saying,  '  But  he  will  break  bis  neck.' 

"  Quasimodo  wept. 

*'  At  last  the  wretched  man,  foaming  with  rage  and  terror, 
perceived  that  all  was  of  no  avail.  He  collected  all  his  re- 
maining strength  for  one  despairing  effort.  He  stiffened  his 
limbs  upon  the  gutter,  pushed  against"  the  wall  frantically 
with  his  knees,  fastened  his  hand  to  a  cleft  in  the  stone,  and 
succeeded  in  raising  himself  a  few  inches.  But  the  commo- 
tion caused  a  sudden  bend  in  the  leaden  pipe,  his  surplice 
was  I'ent  in  twain,  and  feeling  everything  give  way  beneath 
him,  he  shut  his  eyes,  let  go  his  hold,  and  fell. 

"  Quasimodo  watched  him  falling.  A  fall  from  such  a 
height  is  seldom  perpendicular.  The  archdeacon,  launched 
into  the  air,  fell  at  first  with  head  downward  and  arms  ex- 
tended, then  he  turned  round  twice  or  thrice  and  fell  on  the 
roof  of  a  building,  where  he  was  partially  crushed  and  broken. 
But  he  was  not  dead  when  he  struck  ;  Quasimodo  saw  him 
endeavor  to  cling  to  the  tiles,  but  the  incline  was  too  steep, 
and  he  had  no  strength  left.  He  slipped  down  the  roof,  and 
fell  with  a  rebound  upon  the  pavement,  where  he  moved  no 
more. 

"  Quasimodo  then  raised  his  eye  to  look  once  more  upon 
the  girl,  whose  limbs  hanging  from  the  gibbet  he  could  see 
still  quivering  under  her  white  dress  in  the  last  agonies  of 
death  ;  then  he  looked  down  on  the  archdeacon  stretched  at 
the  foot  of  the  tower,  crushed  out  of  the  very  semblance  of 
humanity,  and  exclaimed  with  a  sob  which  shook  his  whole 
fi-ame,  *  Alas,  all  I  ever  loved  ! '  " 


FRENCH  FICTION.  161 


But  perhaps  the  greatest  achievement  in  this  line  is  to 
be  found  in  Lc  Dernier  Jour  d'un  Condamne,  by  the  same 
author.  This  is  a  whole  volume  supposed  to  be  written 
by  a  convict  the  day  before  his  execution,  describing  in 
the  minutest  detail  the  sensations,  anticipations,  reflec- 
tions, terrors,  and  agonies  of  each  successive  hour  as  it 
brings  him  nearer  to  his  doom.  For  a  shocldng  display 
of  perverted  genius  and  power  we  know  nothing  like  it ; 
but  quot.ations  are  of  course  impossible.  There  is  some- 
thing revolting  as  well  as  preposterous  in  the  conception 
of  a  man  on  the  eve  of  a  violent  and  certain  death  thus 
watching,  anatomizing,  and  recording  his  own  awful  emo- 
tions. 

Nearly  every  observer  has  been  struck  with  the  hold 
which  the  desire  and  the  pursuit  of  wealth  and  material 
prosperity  seem  to  have  taken  of  the  French  nation. 
Formerly  other  passions  predominated  over  the  thirst  for 
riches.  Glory,  honor,  enterprise,  intellectual  distinction, 
were  more  than  gold.  The  man  who  sought  to  be  wealthy, 
and  who  became  so,  used  to  be  held  in  low  esteem  in  com- 
parison with  him  who  sought  to  be  great  or  famous,  and 
attained  his  end.  Xow  all  this  is  changed.  The  taste 
for  luxury  has  become  a  passion.  The  millionnaire  has 
become  the  national  idol.  The  avaricious  appetite  seems 
to  have  taken  possession  of  the  whole  people.  Dreams 
of  unexpected,  sudden,  fabulous  wealth  appear  to  be  uni- 
versally indulged  in.  Many  causes  have  contrilnited  to 
this.  Eevolutions,  rapid  and  incalculable  turns  of  the 
vfheel  of  political  fortune,  have  left  scarcely  any  power 
stable  and  enduring  except  that  of  money.  Millions 
gained  in  a  few  months  by  contractors,  stock-jobbers,  and 
railway  speculators  have  gone  far  to  demoralize  the  na- 
tion. Every  one  sees  that  the  men  who  have  thus  A'ault- 
ed  into  affluence  are  not  specially  clever  or  specially 
industrious ;  and  every  one  fancies  there  is  no  reason 
why  he  may  not  do  as  w^ell  as  they.  Then  the  prevalent 
irreligion  of  most  classes,  except  the  poor,  has  taught  all 
to  look  for  their  j)aradise  on  earth,  and  to  frame  it  out  of 


1G2  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

the  most  oartlily  elements,  —  out  of  luxury,  which  wealth 
could  furnish,  —  out  of  love,  such  as  wealth  could  also 
buy.  Those  who  could  not  revel  in  the  wealth  itsnlf, 
could  at  least  revel  in  the  descri])tion  of  it.  Those  who 
failed  of  the  reality  could  find  some  compensation,  some 
delusive  enjoyment,  in  the  vivid  picture  and  the  transient 
dream.  Tims  arose  the  demand  for  romances  of  which 
the  central  figure  is  some  hero  possessed  of  countless  and 
inexhaustilde  millions,  and  of  which  every  ])i\'^e  gives 
evidence  of  an  invention  and  imagination  actually  on  the 
rack  to  produce  conceptions  of  the  most  recherche  and  un- 
heard-of luxury.  The  writers  were  as  eager  to  supply  as 
the  public  to  demand  this  gorgeous,  intoxicating,  and  un- 
wholesome pabulum.  For  their  passion  for  gold,  and  all 
that  gold  can  jDurchase,  had  been  goaded  and  inflamed 
almost  into  frenzy  by  their  peculiar  position.  Usually 
poor,  yet  in  virtue  of  their  education  in  close  contact  daily 
with  the  rich ;  living  a  life  of  toil  and  privation,  yet,  in 
virtue  of  their  brevet  rank  as  men  of  talent,  enjoying,  on 
a  footing  of  nominal  equality,  the  hospitality  of  the  lux- 
urious millionnaire  ;  surrounded  with  every  species  of  ap- 
petizing pleasure  which  they  see  others  plunged  in  and 
gloating  over,  but  \vhich  they  are  too  penniless  to  share  ; 
spending  their  evenings  in  brilliant  theatres  or  magnificent 
saloons,  amid  every  kind  of  beauty  and  indulgence  that 
can  delight  or  irritate  the  senses,  and  retiring  from  all  this 
at  night  to  their  squalid  garret,  their  homeless  hearth,  and 
their  empty  soul,  —  who  can  wonder  that  their  fancy 
should  run  riot  in  meretricious  pictures  of  material  splen- 
dors and  material  joys  ?  and  when  once  embarked  in  this 
career,  millions  are  as  easy  to  create  as  thousands,  and  far 
more  exciting.  Here  we  have  the  fons  ct  origo  of  that 
class  of  French  novels  of  which  Montc-Cristo  is  type 
and  crown,  —  a  work  which  has  driven  thousands  half 
wild  with  envy  and  impotent  desire. 

The  plot  of  Montc-Criato  is  as  follows :  A  meritori- 
ous young  sailor,  captain  of  a  merchant-vessel  belonging 
to  Marseilles,  is  denounced  as  a  Buonapartist  agent  by 
two  enemies,  one  of  whom  desires  his  post  while  the 


FRENCH  FICTIOX.  163 

other  covets  his  mistress.  He  is  arrested  on  his  mar- 
riage day  and  imprisoned  in  tiie  Chateau  d'lf,  an  island 
off  the  south  coast  of  France.  Here  he  remains  for  four- 
teen years,  in  the  course  of  which  he  manages,  by  means 
of  a  subterranean  passage  which  he  excavates,  to  estab- 
lish a  communication  with  an  old  and  very  learned 
Italian  abbe,  who  teaches  him  much  science  and  many 
languages,  and  ends  with  disclosing  to  him  the  secret  of 
a  vast  treasure  which  he  believes  to  be  hidden  in  the 
island  of  Monte-Cristo,  a  desert  rock  near  the  Tuscan 
shore.  The  abbe  dies,  and  the  young  sailor  conceals 
himself  in  his  shroud,  and  contrives  to  be  thrown  into 
the  sea  instead  of  his  deceased  friend.  He  cuts  open  the 
shroud  ;  escapes  by  swimming  ;  goes  to  Monte-Cristo  ; 
discovers  and  disinters  the  treasure  (which  consists  of 
countless  millions  in  gold  and  precious  jewels) ;  and  after 
a  few  years  reappears  in  the  world  as  Count  of  ]\Ionte- 
Cristo,  and  the  possessor  of  fabulous  wealth,  to  com- 
mence his  work  of  rewarding  his  friends  and  punishing 
his  enemies,  —  both  of  wliich  purposes  he  carries  out  by 
means  of  the  most  complicated  plots,  mysterious  appear- 
ances, and  melodramatic  coirps  dc  theatre,  in  the  worst 
taste,  and  of  the  most  extravagant  conception.  AVher- 
ever  he  appears,  he  lives  in  the  most  astounding  and 
elaborate  luxury,  and  behaves  with  the  most  ostentatious 
generosity ;  but  the  generosity  rather  of  a  ^jari'c^iw  than 
a  prince.  His  mansions  are  furnished  with  unimaginable 
splendor ;  his  yacht  is  a  miracle  of  gorgeous  and  elegant 
contrivances  ;  he  presents  Avonderful  diamonds  to  wretch- 
ed innkeepers  who  have  served  him,  and  bestows  unri- 
valled emeralds  on  the  Sultan  and  the  Pope  to  purchase 
the  freedom  of  a  beautii'ul  Greek  and  the  life  of  a  Roman 
bandit.  He  is  served  by  black  and  silent  servants ; 
wherever  he  goes,  unexpected  allies  and  jJroteges  start  up 
beneath  his  feet  to  do  his  bidding ;  he  is  in  secret  com- 
munication with  all  the  potentates  of  the  eartli ;  he 
makes  appointments  to  the  minute  montlis  beforehand 
and  thousands  of  miles  distant,  keeps  them  at  the  last 
stroke  of  the  clock,  and  apologizes  for  being  two  seconds 


IGi  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

late.  In  short,  the  whole  story  reads  like  the'  Arabian 
Nights  adapted  to  Paris  life  in  tlie  reign  of  Louis  Phi- 
lippe. Tiie  taste  of  the  -whole  is  shocking;  but  it  cannot 
be  denied  that  the  pictures  are  gorgeous,  and  thoroughly 
Oriental  both  in  their  magnificence  and  their  monstrosity  : 
nor  can  we  wonder  that  the  work  attained  an  extraordi- 
nary popularity  among  a  people  thirsting  for  material 
luxury  and  enjoyment,  — "the  lust  of  the  flesh,  the  lust 
of  the  eyes,  and  the  pride  of  life." 

The  next  morbid  phase  into  which  the  insatialde  pas- 
sion for  excitement  plunged  the  novelists  of  France  is 
that  of  which  the  works  of  Eugene  Sue,  especially  Atar- 
Gul  and  Lcs  Mysth^es  de  Paris,  offer  the  most  j)erfect 
type.  It  may  be  called  "  the  crhninal-monstrositij  phase," 
or  the  pliase  of  moral  horrors  and  abominations.  Its 
peculiar  feature  is  a  combination  of  the  morally  detest- 
able with  the  psychologically  impossible.  The  imagina- 
tion is  strained,  spurred,  and  as  it  were  stimulated  by 
intoxicating  drinks,  to  conceive  every  variety  and  abyss 
of  crime  ;  to  paint  the  worst  dens  of  infamy  and  sanguin- 
ary brutality  which  the  cellars  and  catacombs  of  Paris  can 
supply,  to  depict  the  daily  life  and  the  habitual  senti- 
ments, desires,  and  language  of  the  hideous  wretches  who 
inhabit  them ;  and  then  to  palace  in  the  midst  of  these 
obscene  haunts  and  these  abandoned  desperadoes  some 
maiden  of  angelic  loveliness  and  purity,  who  walks  un- 
harmed among  the  squalid  and  ruffianly  vice  around  her. 
AVhere  the  plot  does  not  lend  itself  to  this  unnatural 
conception,  the  needed  contrast  is  found  in  some  other 
fashion.  Atar-Gul  is  the  story  of  a  domestic  negro  in 
one  of  the  West  Indian  colonies  of  France,  who  is  pos- 
sessed through  life  by  the  most  diabolic  spirit  of  cruel- 
ty and  revenge  ;  Avho,  having  his  master's  full  confidence 
and  regard,  continues  to  be  considered  by  every  one  as 
a  perfect  specimen  and  treasure  of  devotion  and  gratitude, 
yet  pursues  for  years  a  deliberate  plan  for  tlie  destruction 
of  his  master's  family  and  the  infliction  of  every  species  of 
suffering  he  can  devise;  and  linally,  when  his  master 


FRENCH  FICTION".  165 


is  paralytic  and  unable  either  to  defend  himself  or  de- 
nounce his  enemy,  tortures  his  last  hours  by  explaining 
to  him  the  various  schemes  by  which  he  had  made  his 
life  miserable,  and  gloats  over  the  impotent  horror  and 
indignation  of  the  man  who  had  so  long  loved  and  trusted 
him,  and  whom  at  last  he  thus  barbarously  undeceives. 
The  finale  and  crowning  stroke  of  the  conception  is  the 
awarding  to  this  finished  and  utterly  unredeemed  ruffian 
of  the  Monthyon  prize  for  pre-eminent  virtue,  by  men 
who  had  witnessed  his  apparent  devotion,  but  were  un- 
acquainted with  the  true  secret. 

Atar-Gul  was,  we  believe,  the  first  production  of  Eugene 
Sue ;  Les  Mysteres  de  Paris,  which  followed  it  some  years 
later,  was  every  w^ay  worthy  of  so  unhealthy  a  debut. 
This  work  enjoyed  for  a  considerable  period  almost  un- 
exampled popularity  and  circulation.  That  it  should 
have  done  so  appears  to  us  in  the  highest  degree  discredit- 
able to  the  critical  as  well  as  to  the  moral  taste  of  the 
French  ;  for  anything  more  confused  and  unartistic  than 
the  narrative,  anj^thing  more  unnatural  and  unreal  than 
the  characters  (with  one  or  two  exceptions),  it  is  im- 
possible to  conceive.  Nearly  all  the  dramatis  pcrsonce 
are  criminals  of  the  lowest  order  and  the  most  desperate 
and  depraved  natures.  Nearly  all  the  more  striking  and 
labored  scenes  are  laid  in  those  secluded  or  subterranean 
haunts  of  squalid  misery  and  loathsome  sin  with  which 
a  great  city  like  Paris  is  sure  to  swarm.  Every  atrocious 
crime,  from  gigantic  swindling  to  hired  murder,  which 
lawless  fancy  could  invent  or  lawless  men  could  perjie- 
trate,  is  here  delineated  in  the  most  revolting  detail.  The 
actors  are  brought  upon  the  stage  only  to  commit  these 
crimes.  The  men,  the  women,  even  the  children,  are 
rather  born  devils  than  fallen  and  abandoned  human 
beings.  The  author  seems  to  have  resolved  that  no  one 
should  be  able  to  surpass  him,  or  to  find  it  worth  while 
to  follow  him,  in  this  line.  He  has  exhausted  the  field. 
We  verily  believe  he  has  left  nothing  to  be  gathered  by 
any  gleaner.  In  the  midst  of  all  these  lurid  horrors  two 
characters  are  introduced  by  way  of  relief  and  contrast. 


IGG  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

One  is  a  young  sovereign  prince,  Grand  Duke  of  Gerol- 
stein,  gifted  witli  vast  wealth,  irresistible  fascination,  and 
iabulous  physical  strength,  who  goes  about  in  various 
disguises,  as  he  expresses  it,  "  playing  at  Providence,"  re- 
lieving misery,  righting  wrongs,  and  punishing  crime.  In 
his  judgments  and  inflictions,  it  miglit  strike  an  ordinary 
reader  that  he  is  scarcely  less  scrupulous,  natural,  or 
decent  than  the  criminals  whom  he  detects  and  crushes. 
He  puts  out  the  eyes  of  one  hardened  murderer,  by  way 
of  rendering  his  punishment  appropriate  and  lingering. 
He  lets  loose  one  woman  of  preternatural  fascinations 
and  preternatural  profligacy  (everything  in  the  book  is 
preternatural,  superlative,  and  fabulous)  on  a  notary 
whose  crimes  he  desires  to  drag  to  light,  with  orders 
(which  are  executed  to  the  letter  and  described  as 
minutely  as  in  a  proces  verbal)  to  drive  him  into  frenzy 
^y  perpetually  provoking  his  sensual  desires  and  never 
gratifying  them.  Yet  this  Prince  is  tlie  virtuous  man  of 
the  book.  The  female  miracle  of  it  is  Fleur  de  Marie,  a 
young  maiden,  the  lost  daughter  of  wealthy  and  noble 
parents,  —  of  the  above-mentioned  Grand  Duke  and  his 
mistress,  in  fact,  but  whom  Podolph  believed  to  be  dead, 
—  who  is  brought  up  amid  murderers,  prostitutes,  and 
thieves  of  the  very  lowest  and  filthiest  description  ;  but 
who  has  retained  through  all  surroundings  her  innate 
purity  of  soul,  exquisite  delicacy  of  sentiment,  and  rich 
warmth  of  heart.  She  is  beautifully  painted,  but,  as  we 
have  said,  she  is  a  psychological  impossibility.  Such 
was  the  romance  wdiicli  for  a  while  dominated  Paris,  and 
contrilnited  not  a  little  to  the  election  of  the  author  to 
the  National  Assembly  ten  years  ago,  by  an  overwhelm- 
ing and  nearly  unexampled  majority  of  votes,  as  the 
representative  of  the  Socialist  party. 

The  imenviable  success  of  opening  an  entirely  new 
vein  in  this  mine  of  intellectual  pathology  has  been 
achieved  by  Alexander  Dumas  the  younger,  —  the  son  of 
tlie  most  prolific  and  extravagant  romance-writer  of  this, 
or  perhajis  of  any,  day.  Monic-Cristo  is  the  typical  pro- 
duction of  the  father;  La  Dame  aux  Camelias,  the  typical 


FRENCH  FICTION.  1G7 


production  of  the  son.  The  specialite  of  M.  Dumas,  fils 
(as  he  is  usually  termed),  —  the  particular  field  which  he 
has  selected,  —  is  the  delineation  of  the  clcmi-monde,  or 
courtesan  life.  In  France  this  world  crosses  the  other 
more  legitimate  world  so  frequently,  the  two  societies 
run  so  parallel  and  so  often  touch  and  even  intermingle, 
that  pictures  of  the  one  have  almost  always  involved 
allusions  to,  and  occasional  excursions  within  the  limits 
of,  the  other.  Episodes  and  complications  connected  with 
the  demi-monde  are  therefore  to  be  met  with  in  many 
recent  Parisian  novels ;  but  M.  Dumas,  fils,  is  the  first 
writer  who  has  deliberately,  consistently,  and  as  it  were 
almost  professionally,  laid  his  scenes  in  this  anomalous 
world,  and  chosen  his  characters  from  among  the  people 
who  inhabit  it  and  frequent  it.  La  Dame  aux  Camelias 
and  Le  Demi-Monde  (which  is  a  drama,  and  had  an  enor- 
mous success  when  brought  out  on  the  stage)  are  devoted 
to  the  description  of  courtesan  life ;  and  Le  Roman  d\cne 
Femmc  is  a  narrative  in  which  the  two  societies  —  the 
recognized  and  the  unrecognized  —  are  placed  side  by 
side,  with  all  their  clashing  engagements  and  incongruous 
affections  and  inextricable  links,  —  with  their  painful 
contrasts  and  still  more  painful  resemblances.  It  is  im- 
possible to  deny  that  M.  Dumas,  fils,  is  a  master  of  his 
craft.  Not  only  is  he  thoroughly  at  home  in  the  society 
which  he  depicts,  not  only  does  he  know  to  its  very  core 
and  in  all  its  recesses  the  social  and  (so  to  speak)  the 
inner  life  of  its  denizens,  both  male  and  female  ;  but  he 
handles  his  materials  as  an  artist,  a  philosopher,  and 
al  most  as  a  moralist,  —  if  that  epithet  can  fairly  be  ap- 
plied to  a  man  too  familiar  with  all  forms  of  profligacy 
to  shrink  from  any,  to  whom  voluptuous  indulgence  is 
one  of  the  ordinary  phenomena  of  life,  and  who  does  not 
even  profess  to  have  any  sentiments  of  right  or  wrong 
concerning  it.  He  is  a  conscientious  and  consummate 
workman ;  he  makes  a  really  profound  study  of  his  sub- 
ject ;  he  prepares  his  canvas  with  scientific  care ;  his 
drawing  is  always  distinct ;  his  coloring,  always  vivid^  is 
never  outrageous ;  his  figures,  such  as  they  are,  are  in 


1G8  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

liarmony  witli  tliemselves  and  in  kcepinrr  with  each  other; 
lie  never  condescends  to  the  monstrous,  and  scarcely  ever 
to  the  loathsome.  Compared  with  his  father,  he  is  a 
model  of  high  art;  compared  with  Eugene  Sue,  he  is 
almost  a  classic ;  compared  with  Ernest  Feydean,  he  may 
be  regarded  as  decent  and  almost  pure.  It  is  true  he  has 
expressly  selected  scenes  and  characters  which  it  is  usual 
to  ignore,  or  to  notice  at  a  distance,  or  to  look  at  and  ])ass 
to  the  other  side ;  it  is  true  that  he  descril)es  them  with 
a  plainness  of  language  and  fulness  of  detail  hitherto  un- 
exampled in  works  intended  to  take  rank  as  literature, 
to  be  read  avowedly,  and  to  lie  on  the  tables  of  decent 
drawing-rooms  ;  it  is  true  there  is  something  startling  and 
almost  stunning  in  the  unapologetic  and  as  it  were  physio- 
logical coolness  of  his  analysis.  But  he  writes  rather 
like  a  man  to  w'hom  reticence  is  unknovv-n  than  to  whom 
license  is  attractive.  He  has,  indeed,  no  scruples  of 
modesty  to  restrain  him  from  saying  anything  which  it 
lies  in  his  way  to  say ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  has  not, 
like  so  many  of  his  countrymen,  a  disordered  prurience 
perpetually  goading  him  to  go  out  of  his  way  to  find  pre- 
cisely the  thing  which  he  ought  not  to  say.  In  I'act, 
though  about  the  most  lawless  of  French  novelists,  yet, 
compared  with  most  of  them,  he  may  almost  be  deemed 
estimable;  and  if  it  be  permissible  at  all  —  which  it  is 
hard  to  grant  —  to  paint  in  detail  a  life  of  which  frailty, 
sin,  and  often  abandoned  viciousness  constitute  the  atmo- 
sphere and  action,  then  there  is  little  to  quarrel  with 
either  in  the  science  or  the  talent  of  the  painter.* 

If  we  could  venture  to  separate  the  tendency  of  a  work 
from  its  features  and  its  character,  or  to  set  off  the  les- 
sons it  is  fitted  to  convey  to  thoughtful  tninds  against  the 
tone  of  its  sentiments  and  the  probable  influence  of  its 

*  From  this  appreciative  admission  —  which  in  its  context  here  is  al- 
most praise  —  we  must  make,  however,  one  weighty  exception.  An- 
tonine,  the  last  work  of  M.  Dumas,  in  the  cold  cynicism  of  its  con- 
clusion, and  still  more  in  its  shameless  imveiling  of  some  of  the  most 
perverse  and  revolting  vagaries  of  unhallowed  passion,  seems  to  us  the 
saddest  illustration  and  measure  of  French  demoralization  yet  given  to 
the  world. 


FRENCH   FICTION.  1G9 


pictures  upon  ordinary  readers,  we  should  be  more  than 
half  disposed  to  class  M.  Dumas'  novels  among  moral 
fictions.  There  pervades  them  all  a  conviction,  as  pro- 
found as"  that  of  Solomon,  and  based  upon  a  similar 
experience,  of  the  utter  worthlessness  of  sensual  en- 
joyments, of  the  hollowness  of  a  life  of  pleasure,  of  the 
disappointment  and  satiety  of  those  who  lead  it,  of 
the  mockery  of  all  vicious  liopes,  of  the  delusive  nature 
of  all  casual  and  wandering  affections.  The  most  bound- 
less appliances  of  luxury,  the  most  complete  and  intoxi- 
cating of  illicit  successes,  are  "  apples  on  the  Dead  Sea 
shore."  The  better  the  instincts  and  the  nobler  the  capac- 
ities of  the  votary  of  pleasure,  the  more  certain  and  the 
more  bitter  will  be  his  disenchantment.  The  endeavor 
to  import  into  the  life  of  the  demi-monde  any  real  senti- 
ment or  any  genuine  affection  is  persistently  and  convin- 
cingly represented  as  inevitably  hopeless  and  fatal.  The 
actors  in  his  sad  dramas  of  passion  and  of  sin  are  always 
punished  and  always  wretched.  They  pay  for  hours  of 
frenzied  and  forbidden  joys  by  years  of  fearful  expiation. 
The  utterly  heartless  and  selfisli  are  always  shown  to  be  the 
only  ones  tolerably  happy ;  and  these  are  never  made  the 
attractive  or  the  fascinating  personages  of  the  story.  This 
is  cynical  morality,  no  doubt,  but  it  is  morality  which  will 
produce  its  effect  notwitlistanding ;  and  all  the  more  so 
upon  the  class  to  whom  it  is  addressed,  as  springing  out 
of  reaction  and  experience,  and  not  out  of  principle,  and 
as  coming  from  a  man  in  whom  the  moral  sense,  as  we 
understand  it,  seems  to  have  no  existence.  In  the  Dame 
aux  Camelias,  the  heroine,  a  courtesan  awakened  to  purity 
and  aspiration  by  a  real  passion,  ends  a  life  consisting 
of  scenes  of  the  most  poignant  and  ever-recurring  anguish, 
varied  only  with  days  of  transient  and  precarious  rapture, 
by  a  death  of  lingering  and  tortured  desolation  ;  while 
her  lover  is,  and  deserves  to  be,  almost  more  wretched 
than  herself.  In  the  Roman  dune  Fcmme,  an  exqui- 
site and  chaste  young  wife,  whose  thread  of  life,  owing  to 
a  casual  frailty  of  her  husband,  becomes  entangled  with 
that  of  a  clever  and  merciless  lorctte,  dies  broken-hearted 

8 


170  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  having  destroyed  hnsband, 
father,  child,  and  friend,  by  the  fault  of  one  nearly  nn- 
conscious  hour.  With  M.  Dumas,  retribution  is  abun- 
dantly and  logically  dealt  out  to  all  the  frail  and  guilty. 
Vice  is  never  made  happy,  except  it  is  so  abandoned  and 
so  gross  as  to  lose  all  its  fascinations,  and  to  become  re- 
pellent and  not  dangerous. 

From  these  tales — and  from  aYiother  which  in  some 
features  may  be  classed  with  them,  and  which  has  re- 
cently earned  an  infamous  celebrity  *  —  we  gather  two 
or  three  features  of  Parisian  social  life  which  throw 
much  light  on  the  subject  we  are  discussing.  One  is 
particularly  noticeable.  Their  heroes  have  nothing  else 
to  do  in  life  but  to  make  love.  They  have  no  business, 
no  profession,  no  occupation.  Many  of  them  are  men  of 
fortune,  who  can  afford  to  be  idle,  and  to  waste  wealth  in 
the  pursuit  of  pleasure.  But  this  is  by  no  means  uni- 
versally or  necessarily  the  case.  Tliose  who  have  only  a 
scanty  income  —  seidemcnt  cle  quoi  vivrc,  as  they  express 
it  —  seem  to  lead  pretty  much  the  same  sort  of  life,  as 
long  as  their  means  last,  and  sometimes  long  after  they 
are  ruined.  AVhen  this  point  is  reached,  they  game,  con- 
tract debts,  marry  an  heiress,  or  blow  out  their  brains. 
In  England  the  great  majority  of  young  men  of  educa- 
tion have  something  regular  to  do,  —  an  employment  at 
least,  if  not  a  profession.  If  they  are  born  to  a  fortune, 
they  have  usually  political  duties  or  occupation  connected 
with  the  management  of  their  estates,  or  they  travel  or 
enter  the  army.  If  they  are  poor,  they  embrace  com- 
merce or  the  civil  service,  or  some  one  or  other  of  the 
laborious  callings  that  lead  to  wealth.     If  they  have  only 

*  Fanny,  by  Ernest  Feydeau.  It  is  scarcely  fair,  however,  to 
i^ank  this  disreputable  volume,  the  succes.s  of  which  is  in  itself  a  scandal, 
with  the  artistic  performances  of  M.  Dumas,  Jils.  It  is  a  mere  juctnre 
—  drawn  with  a  certain  power  and  richness  of  coloring  no  doubt  —  of 
irrational  and  ungoverned  passion  ;  and  is  stained  by  indelicacies  more 
monstrous  in  imagination  and  more  daring  in  expression  than  are  to  be 
found  in  any  other  specimen  of  this  sort  of  literature  that  has  fallen 
under  our  notice".  Its  excess  of  license,  rather  than  any  notable  ability, 
we  believe,  caused  its  sudden  popularity. 


FRENCH  FICTION.  171 


a  moderate  income,  they  almost  always  eke  it  out  by 
entering  on  some  profession  that  is  respectable,  if  not  very 
lucrative.  It  is  exceptional,  and  is  not  considered  credita- 
ble, for  a  j^oung  man  to  be  without  some  recognized  and 
regular  occupation  or  vocation.  In  France,  on  the  con- 
trary, —  in  French  novels  at  least,  —  what  is  here  the 
exception  appears  to  be  the  rule.  The  result  is  twofold, 
judging  by  the  descriptions  of  society  which  we  are  now 
considering.  In  the  first  place,  these  men  being  ut- 
terly desceuvres,  without  any  other  call  upon  their  time, 
give  themselves  up  wholly  to  the  contrivances  and  the 
enjoyments  of  intrigue.  When  in  love,  they  throw 
themselves  unreservedly  into  the  pastime ;  their  whole 
thoughts  and  their  entire  hours  are  absorbed  in  it ; 
they  do  nothing  else  morning,  noon,  and  niglit ;  it  is 
not  to  them  an  episode,  a  reward,  or  a  refreshment, — 
it  is  their  daily  bread,  their  business,  their  calling,  their 
lilDor,  their  life.  The  lover  does  not  go  to  his  mistress 
in  his  leisure  moments,  in  his  hours  of  relaxation,  in 
liis  holidays,  in  his  evenings,  "  after  office  hours  "  : 
he  lies  at  her  feet  all  day  and  every  day ;  he  adu- 
lates, contemplates,  and  caresses  her  from  jMonday 
morning  till  Saturday  night.  *  He  is  described  as 
plunged  in  a  sort  of  sea  of  delirious  and  delusive  into.xi- 
catiou,  coming  to  the  surface  only  every  now  and  then 
to  breathe.     The  result,  of  course,  inevitably  is  both  that 

—  thinking  of  nothing  else  —  passion  is  pampered  into 
an  excess  and  perverted  into  fancies  which  together  be- 
come almost  insanity ;  and  that  —  doing  nothing  else  — 

*  "  J'allaischez  elle  k  I'heure  de  dejeuner  ;  n'ayant  rien  a  faire  de  la 
journee,  je  ne  sortais  qu'avec  elle.  Elle  me  reteiiait  a  diner,  la  soiree 
s'eiisuivait  par  consequent  ;  bientot,  lorsi^ue  I'heure  de  rentrer  arrivait, 
nous  iniagiuanies  luille  pretextes,  nous  primes  mille  precautions  illusoires 
qui,  au  fond,  n'eu  etaient  point.   Entin  je  vivais,  pour  ainsi  dire,  chez  elle." 

—  Confessions  d'un  Enfant  du  Siede,  par  Alfred  de  Musset. 
See  also  Dame  aux  Camelias  and  Antonine,  passim. 

"  Mon  existence  etait  sedentaire.  Je  jiassais  la  journee  chez  ma 
maitresse  :  mon  plus  grand  plaisir  etait  de  I'emmener  a  la  canipagne 
durant  les  beaux  jours  d'ete,  et  de  me  couclier  pres  d'elle  dans  les  bois, 

siir  I'herbe,  ou  sur  la  mousse En  hiver,  comma  elle  aimait  le 

monde,  nous  courions  les  bals  et  les  masques,  en  sorte  que  cette  vie 
oisive  ue  cessait  jamais."  —  Ibid. 


172  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

sentiment  flies  out  from  sheer  weariness  and  reaction, 
and  becomes  quenched  in  sickening  satiety.  The  liai- 
son, even  when  comparatively  pure  and  noble,  having 
no  relief  or  variety  while  it  lasts,  cannot,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  last  long.  In  the  second  place,  —  and  this  is 
a  consequence  shared  in  a  qualified  degree  by  all  great 
cities  where  the  rich  and  idle  congregate, —  tlie  nvuuber 
of  these  idle  men  who  have  to  kill  time  in  seeking  jjleas- 
nre  goes  far  to  explain  the  laxity  of  morals  and  irailty 
of  reputations  believed  to  prevail  among  the  feinmes  dit 
monde  in  France.  It  is  a  social  country  ;  people  live 
much  in  public,  and  much  in  company.  A  far  larger  por- 
tion of  the  time  both  of  men  and  women  is  passed  in 
making  and  receiving  visits  than  with  us.  The  number 
of  people  available  for  this  occupation  is  unusually  great. 
So  many  men  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  pay  court  to 
women,  and  no  scruples  to  prevent  them  from  paying  it 
in  any  mode  and  under  any  circumstances,  that,  in  cer- 
tain classes  of  society,  women  may  be  said  to  pass  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  their  lives  in  a  state  of  siege ;  they 
are  perpetually  surrounded  by  courtiers  and  "  pretend- 
ers "  ;  and  as,  alas  !  they  are  nearly  as  unoccupied  as  their 
adulators,  and  often  quite  as  ennvyees,  what  wonder  that 
so  many  fall  under  the  combined  influence  of  tempta- 
tion, tedium,  and  bad  example  ! 

Again :  nothing  makes  a  stronger  or  more  painful  im- 
pression on  the  reader  than  the  unfeeling  brutality  with 
which  the  lovers  in  these  tales  habitually  treat  their 
mistresses,  even  when  these  mistresses  are  ladies  of  high 
position,  superior  education,  and  unblemished  reputation. 
If  any  one  is  disposed  to  think  lightly  and  leniently  of 
those  habits  of  license  and  intrigue  which  seem  so  gen- 
eral in  France,  and  which  are  far  from  unknown  here,  he 
w-ill  do  well  to  ponder  this  peculiar  phase  of  character, 
as  depicted  in  the  literature  in  question  by  those  Avho 
know  it  well  and  share  it  so  thoroughly  that  the}'  liave 
almost  ceased  to  excuse  it  or  to  be  conscious  of  it.  In 
the  novels  of  George  Sand,  of  Dumas,  Jils,  of  Ernest 
Feydeau,  and  of  Alfred  de  Musset,  the  heroines  are  la- 


FRENCH  FICTION.  173 


dies  endowed  with  every  amiable  and  attractive  quality, 
except  that  rigid  principle  which  is  scarcely  to  be  looked 
for  in  such  society  ;  fascinating,  affectionate,  full  of  heart 
and  soul ;  capable  not  only  of  earnest  and  passionate  but 
of  devoted  and  self-sacrificing  attachment,  and  lavishinof 
all  the  priceless  treasures  of  a  rich  and  noble  nature  on 
their  unworthy  suitors  ;  risking  if  not  actually  losing  for 
them  peace,  fame,  a  calm  conscience,  and  a  happy  home ; 
giving  themselves  up  with  a  completeness  and  confid- 
ingness  of  surrender  which  would  be  lovely  and  almost 
sublime,  if  only  the  cause  were  lawful  and  the  object 
worthy ;  trusting,  soothing,  aiding,  enduring,  worshipping, 
with  a  truth  and  fervor  in  which  woman  so  rarely  fails, 
and  which  man  so  rarely  merits.  But  the  men  of  the 
story  —  the  objects  and  inheritors  of  all  this  affection  — 
are  represented  —  almost  invariably,  and  as  if  it  were  the 
rule  of  life  from  which  trutli  and  notoriety  permit  the 
artist  no  departure  —  as  becoming  at  once,  not  indeed 
insensible  to,  but  utterly  ungi'ateful  for,  the  wealth  of 
love  lavished  upon  them ;  repaying  devotion  with  insult, 
and  abandonment  with  cxigeance ;  answering  every  fresh 
proof  of  fidelity  and  self-surrender  with  groundless  jeal- 
ousies and  mean  suspicions ;  meeting  every  concession 
with  some  new  outrage  or  some  new  demand ;  treating 
the  most  faithful,  tender,  and  noble-minded  mistresses, 
the  moment  they  have  them  in  their  power,  as  no  gentle- 
man could  treat  even  the  poorest  fillc  perdue  who  still 
retained  a  woman's  decency  and  a  M'oman's  form ;  in  a 
word,  displaying  in  every  word  and  action  a  heartless 
egotism,  a  harsh  and  cruel  tyranny,  and  a  total  want  of 
respect  and  consideration  for  the  most  natural  as  for  the 
most  sacred  feelings,  which  would  seem  incredible  on 
any  less  authority  than  their  own.  For  it  is  remarkable 
that  the  novels  which  most  detail  all  these  cruel  and 
selfish  inflictions  —  which  specify  the  worst  brutalities 
inflicted  by  these  lovers  upon  fond  and  tender  women  — 
are  all  in  the  autohioc/raphical  form  :  it  is  the  barbarian 
who  describes  his  own  barbarities,  —  the  executioner  who 
records  all  the  slow  elaborate  tortures  he  has  practised 


174  LITERARY  AXD  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

on  his  victim,  —  sometimes,  indeed,  with  a  sort  of  con- 
ventional self-condemnation,  thougli  scarcely  ever  with 
self-loathing  or  self-sur])ri8e,  —  never  with  any  indica- 
tion of  that  burning  slianie  wliich  would  make  the  record 
of  such  things  impossible,  even  were  the  commission  of 
them  not  so. 

It  will  be  obvious  that  the  worst  exemplifications  of 
this  hideous  feature  cannot  stain  our  pages.  It  is  not 
easy  even  to  adduce  any.  They  are  so  numberless  and 
so  perpetually  recurring,  that  to  quote  them  would  be 
often  to  give  the  whole  narration.  La  Dame  aux  Cami- 
llas is  full  of  them,  —  consists  of  them,  —  some  of  a 
character  and  enormity  which  are  scarcely  conceivable, 
—  yet  all  narrated  by  the  offender  himself.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  Fanny.  The  same  may  be  said  of  Con- 
fessions d'nn  Enfant  du  Steele.  The  same  may  be  said 
of  File  et  Lui.  In  fact,  they  are  all  stories  of  a  lover 
torturing  his  devoted  and  sensitive  mistress  to  death  by 
a  series  of  ingenious  insiilts,  outrageous  suspicions,  cruel 
and  exacting  caprices,  refined  brutality,  and  a  sort  of  cold 
superlative  selfishness  i'or  which  a  fitting  epithet  really 
is  not  to  be  found.  After  describing  a  number  of  these 
brutalities,  some  of  them  almost  incredilde,  the  Evfant 
du  Sieele  sums  up  thus :  "  Lecteur,  cela  dura  six  mois : 
pendant  six  mois  entiers,  Brigitte,  calomniee,  exposee 
aux  insultes  du  monde,  eut  a  essuyer  de  ma  part  tons  les 
dedains  et  toutes  les  injures  qu'un  libertiu  colere  et  cruel 
pent  prodiguer  a  la  fille  qu'il  paye."  * 

*  Fanny  is  from  first  to  last  the  historj'',  bj'  himself,  of  a  lover  who 
maltreats  and  torments  his  mistress  in  every  mode  except  actual  per- 
sonal violence,  — by  sarcasms,  by  insults,  b)'  suspicions,  by  cruel  out- 
rages upon  every  sentiment  of  fluty,  honor,  and  natural  affection  which 
she  is  endeavoring  to  retain.  Yet  most  of  the  outrages  are  of  such  a 
character  that  we  have  searched  in  vain  for  any  passage  that  it  would 
be  possible  to  extract.  AVe  can  only  convey  the  most  faint  and  general 
conception  of  the  narrative  by  saying  that  the  lover  begins  by  being 
furious  because  his  mistress  stays  by  the  bedside  of  her  sick  child,  in- 
stead of  visiting  him  as  usual  ;  that  he  then  falls  so  low  as  to  regale  her 
ears  with  every  false  and  scandalous  rumor  that  he  can  collect  regarding 
her  husband,  whom,  though  she  has  betrayed  him,  she  still  esteems  and 
values  ;  that  he  abuses  her  because  she  defends  this  husband  against  his 
calumnies  ;  and  finally  that,  to  punish  the  unhappy  lady  for  refusing  to 


FRENCH  FICTION.  175 


Another  characteristic  and,  as  far  as  we  know,  unique 
feature  of  these  novels  is  the  repeated  pictures  they  pre- 
sent to  us,  not  only  of  absolutely  uncontrolled  passions 
and  emotions,  indulged  without  reticence  or  shame,  but 
of  tlie  entire  absence  apparently  of  any  consciousness 
that  such  abandonment  of  all  self- restraint  is  in  any  way 
disgraceful  and  unmanly.  The  heroes  go  into  the  most 
outrageous  furies  ;  they  roll  on  the  ground  in  agonies  of 
tears ;  they  pass  from  the  wildest  excesses  of  love  into 
the  wildest  excesses  of  hatred ;  they  become  speechless 
with  rage ;  they  gesticulate  like  madmen  ;  they  give  vent 
to  all  the  unseemly  violences  of  the  half-childish,  half- 
savage  human  animal,  without  dignity,  decency,  or  dra- 
pery. It  is  not  so  much  that  they  lose  all  self-control, 
as  that  they  give  no  intimation  that  self-control  is  con- 
sidered needful,  or  the  want  of  it  shameful.  Extremes 
to  which  no  provocation  could  goad  an  Englishman  seem 
to  be  simple  every-day  occurrences  among  these  spoiled 
children  of  license  and  intrioue.  "  The  first  thing  I  did  " 
(says  one), "as  soon  as  I  was  able  to  rise  after  my  v/ound, 
was  to  run  to  my  mistress's  house.  I  found  her  alone, 
sitting  in  the  corner  of  her  room,  her  countenance  fallen 
and  disturbed.  I  loaded  her  with  the  most  violent  re- 
proaches ;  I  was  drunk  with  despair.  /  cried  out  till  the 
vjhole  house  echoed  with  the  clamor  ;  and  at  the  same  time 
my  tears  so  interrupted  my  loords  that  I  FELL  ON  THE  BED 
to  let  them  Jloio  freely."  He  ends  by  striking  his  mistress 
on  the  back  of  tlie  neck ;  and  when,  in  spite  of  all  this 
treatment,  she  comes  to  him  the  same  evening  to  befj 
forgiveness  and  reconciliation,  he  takes  a  carving-knife 
and  threatens  to  kill  lier.  The  same  man,  a  year  or  two 
later,  finds  another  lady  to  love  him,  to  whom  he  behaves 
much  in  the  same  way,  —  "treating  her"  (he  says)  "now 
as  an  abandoned  woman,  and  the  next  instant  as  a  divin- 
ity.    A  quarter  of  an  hour  after  insulting  her,  I  was 

fly  with  him,  and  abandon  reputation,  husband,  and  children  at  once, 
he,  out  of  mere  horrible  perversity  and  spite,  ]>lunges  into  every  sort  of 
low  debauchery  ;  and  returns  to  her,  day  after  day,  soiled  and  reeking 
from  the  haunts  of  infamy  in  which  he  has  been  endeavoring,  as  it  were, 
to  revenge  himself  upon  her  !     And  all  this  he  relates  himself  ! 


17G  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

kneeling  at  her  feet ;  as  soon  as  I  ceased  to  accuse,  I  be- 
gan to  apologize ;  when  I  could  no  longer  rail  at  her,  I 
wept  over  her.  A  monstrous  delirium,  a  rapturous  fever, 
seized  upon  me ;  I  nearly  lost  my  senses  in  the  violence 
of  my  transports;  I  did  not  know  what  to  say,  or  to  do, 
or  to  imagine,  to  repair  the  evil  I  had  wrought.  I  spoke 
of  blowing  out  my  brains  if  I  ever  ill-treated  her  again. 
These  alternations  of  ipassion  often  lasted  vliolc  nifjhts!'* 
The  following  is  the  reception  given  to  a  lady  who  comes 
to  visit  her  lover  (whom  she  had  wronged,  certainly)  as 
he  recovers  from  a  severe  illness  :  — 

"  EUe  se  pencha  sur  mon  lit,  et  des  deux  mains  souleva  son 

voile '  Fanny ! '    m'ecriai-je   tout-a-coup,    en    levant   les 

deux  bras.  Elle  s'afFaissa  en  sanglotant  sur  ma  poitrine.  Mais 
la  memoire  m'^tait  revenu  avec  la  connaissance,  et  la  frajypant 
au  front  de  mes poings  fermes,  je  la  detachai  de  moi  en  m'ecriant 
cemme  un  furieux  : '  Va-t'en  d'ici  ! '  Elle  crut  que  j'etais 
fou  encore,  et  se  detourna  en  pleurant ;  mais  retrouvant  uu 
reste  de  force  dans  ma  colere,  je  la  frappais  encore  a  Vepaule, 
et  m'elangant  de  mon  lit,  je  m'abattais  sur  elle,  et  roulai  ^ 
tcrre  a  ses  pieds."  t 

One  quotation  more  and  we  have  done.  This  novel 
ends  with  another  scene,  similar,  but  yet  more  atrocious. 
After  heaping  every  sort  of  verbal  outrage  and  abuse  on 
the  unhappy  woman  who  had  given  herself  to  him,  for 
six  or  seven  pages  of  fluent  insult,  the  narrator  of  his 
own  shame  proceeds :  —^ 

"  Elle  se  leva  enfin  d^sesperee,  et  voxilut  partir.  Mais  je  la 
retins,  la  poussai  au  fond  de  la  chambre,  et  m'adossant  contra 
la  porte,  les  bras  croises :  '  Tu  entendras  tout ! '  m'ecriai-je. 
Et  alors  je  me  mis  cl  haleter ;  et  ne  trouvant  plus  rieu  a  lui 

*  Confessions  d'lcn  Enfant  du  Si&cle.  These  are  not,  as  might  be 
imagined,  specimens  taken  from  the  poor  production  of  some  hajk  ca- 
terer for  the  lowest  class  of  readers.  They  are  extracts  from  a  work 
of  unusual  power,  of  profound  melancholy,  and  sadly  and  almost  sound- 
ly moral  in  the  lesson  it  inculcates.  It  contains  the  truest,  most  ]iainful, 
and  most  warning  pictures  we  have  ever  met  with  of  the  certainty  and 
the  terrible  degree  in  which  a  career  of  profligacy,  however  brief  and  un- 
congenial, poisons  all  legitimate  enjoyment  and  all  purer  and  serener 
love. 

t  Fanny,  par  Ernest  Feydeau. 


FRENCH  FICTION.  177 


dire,  je  la  menagai  des  poings,  en  irepignant  et  en  cricuit ;  et  elle 
me  regardait  de  cute  avec  un  indicible  terreur.  Enfin  les  pa- 
roles, une  fois  de  plus,  jaillirent  de  ma  bouche  :  'Jamais  je  n'ai 
cru  en  toi.  Je  sentais  si  bien  que  tu  me  trompais,  qu'a  mon 
tour  —  malheureux  que  je  suis  ! — j'ai  voulu  souiller  notre 
amour.  Apprends-le  done,  si  tu  ne  t'en  es  pas  dout^e ;  moi 
qui  t'adorais,  je  t'ai  tromp^e  avec  les  plus  viles  des  femmes.' " 

Conceive  an  English  gentleman  in  such  a  passion  with 
the  faithless  lady  whom  he  loved  that  his  fury  cannot 
find  utterance,  setting  his  back  against  the  door,  panting 
with  rage,  stamping  and  shaking  his  fists  at  her  like  a 
dumb  idiot ;  and  at  last,  when  words  come  to  his  relief, 
using  his  recovered  speech  to  overwhelm  her  with  noir- 
ccurs  which  could  never  enter  the  thoughts  or  pass  the 
lips  of  any  but  the  shameless  and  the  abandoned  !  And 
conceive  further  his  describing  all  this  himself,  without 
the  slightest  indication  of  reticence  or  humiliation  ! 

It  might  seem  impossible  to  go  beyond  or  below  this ; 
yet  if  there  be  a  lower  depth  still,  that  depth  has  been 
reached  in  two  of  the  last  novels  that  have  issued  from 
the  press,  written  by  two  of  the  most  noted  writers  of 
the  day.  Mle  et  Lui  and  Lui  et  Elle  bear  the  names 
respectively  of  George  Sand  and  Paul  de  Musset.  They 
are  said  to  be,  and  we  believe  they  are,  the  personal 
scandalous  adventures  of  the  writers,  with  some  coloring, 
but  with  little  deviation  from  historic  fact,  wrought 
into  fiction.  Elle  et  Lui  describes  the  connection  of 
Madame  Uudevant  (under  her  noyri  de  plume  of  George 
Sand)  with  Alfred  de  Musset,  from  the  lady's  point  of 
view,  and  paints  scenes  and  characters  as  she  would  wish 
them  to  be  believed  by  the  world.  Even  on  her  own 
showing,  the  story  is  shocking  and  revolting  enough ; 
but  she  paints  herself  as  the  loving,  clinging,  much-en- 
during, if  yielding  and  guilty,  woman ;  and  her  lover  as 
cruel,  exacting,  capricious,  and  incurably  licentious.  This 
lover,  so  delineated,  —  whom  every  one  recognized  as 
Alfred  de  Musset,  a  poet  and  novelist  of  great  merit,  — 
is  dead ;  and  Paul  de  Musset,  not  choosing  that  such  a 

8*  L 


178  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

false  picture  of  his  brother  should  f;o  forth  uncontradicted, 
and  having  materials  and  documents  at  his  command, 
thought  fit  to  give,  also  in  the  form  of  fiction,  Alfred's 
version  of  the  liaison.  Here,  as  might  he  expected,  tlie 
colors  are  reversed :  the  gentleman  is  described  as  all 
that  is  amiable,  attractive,  faithful,  and  devoted ;  while 
the  lady  acts  throughout  as  a  thoroughly  heartless  and 
abandoned  creature,  though  full'  of  fascination,  and  not 
incapable  for  a  time  of  experiencing  an  absorbing  pas- 
sion. Which  of  the  parties  speaks  the  truth  and  which 
lies,  or  in  what  proportion  the  indisputable  falsehood  is 
to  be  divided  between  them,  it  is  needless  to  iniiuire.* 
But  assuredly  nothing  can  be  more  disgraceful  than  the 
things  revealed,  —  except  the  revelation  of  them. 

Prom  the  popularity,  the  general  agreement,  the  con- 
sentaneous tone,  both  as  to  character  and  plot,  of  the 
w'orks  we  have  been  considering,  as  well  as  from  the  ab- 
sence of  all  exposing  and  protesting  criticism,  and  from 
much  corroborative  information  that  has  reached  us,  it 
would  seem  difficult  to  resist  the  following  conclusions. 
That  illicit  liaisons,  especially  with  married  women,  are, 
in  the  upper  and  the  idler  classes  of  France,  the  rule 
rather  than  the  exception,  and  that  the  exceptions  are 
rare  and  remarkable  :  among  the  hourfjcoisie,  Ave  believe, 
the  case  is  different,  —  they  are  too  busy  for  a  life  of  dis- 
sipation and  intrigue.  That,  in  the  vast  majority  of  \x\- 
stances,  these /t«tso?is  have  their  origin- — not,  as  among 
the  Italians,  in  genuine  and  absorbing  passion,  nor,  as 
among  the  Germans,  in  blended  sentimentality  and  sense, 
but  —  in  vanity,  want  of  occupation,  and  love  of  excite- 
ment on  the  part  of  the  men,  and  in  lo"\'e  of  admiration, 
and  (what  is  worse)  mere  love  of  luxury,  on  the  part  of 
the  women,  —  M'hose  suitors  furnish  those  means  of  ex- 
travagance which  their  husbands  refuse,  —  and  that  this 
distinction  is  to  be  traced  to  the  peculiar  character  and 
temperament  of  the  nation.  That  into  these  liaisons  the 
men  ajipear  habitually  to  import  a  coarseness  and  a  cruelty, 
as  well  as  an  iinchivalric  and  ungenerous  roughness,  iudi- 


FRENCH  FICTION.  179 


eating,  not  so  much  that  they  do  not  appreciate  the  sacrifice 
which  the  woman  makes  in  giving  herself  to  them,  as  that 
they  do  not  believe  it  is  any  sacrifice  at  all.  In  fine,  so  little 
respect  does  there  seem  to  be  left  for  the  feelings  of  wo- 
men, so  little  belief  in  their  virtue,  so  little  trust  in 
their  sincerity  or  disinterestedness,  —  so  completely  have 
calculation,  luxury,  mutual  contempt,  and  mutual  mis- 
trust poisoned  the  tenderest  relation  of  life  and  its 
purest  passion,  —  that  the  fitting  epithet  to  apply  to  this 
phase  of  French  society  is  not  so  much  "  immorality," 
as  hideous  and  cancerous  corruption. 

We  are  little  disposed  to  indulge  in  trite  moralities,  or 
rigid  censoriousness,  or  stern  condemnations  in  which  is 
no  tenderness  for  frailty  and  no  mercy  for  repentance. 
But  surely  those  who  incline  to  think  lightly  of  sacred 
ties  and  leniently  of  voluptuous  indulgence  and  unli- 
censed attachments  may  find  a  warning  in  these  pictures 
of  a  social  life  where  this  lenience  and  levity  are  univer- 
sal. They  may  see  there  how  surely  and  how  rapidly 
%vant  of  feeling  follows  want  of  principle ;  how  disbelief 
in  virtue  grows  out  of  experience  in  frailty  ;  how  scanty  is 
the  joy  to  be  derived  from  tlie  emotions  of  love  when  those 
emotions  are  reduced  to  their  mere  beggarly  material  ele- 
ments, div^orced  from  the  redeeming  spirit,  and  stripped  of 
the  concealing  and  adorning  drapery,  of  fancy  and  of  grace; 
and  at  what  a  fearful  cost  to  heart  and  soul  these  feverish 
and  wandering  gratifications  are  purchased,  —  how  poor 
the  article  and  how  terrible  the  price,  —  a  disenchanted 
world,  a  paralyzed  and  threadbare  soul,  a  past  with  no 
sweet  and  gentle  memories,  a  future  with  no  yearnings 
and  no  hopes. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  prevalence  and  wide  cir- 
culation of  such  a  popular  literature  as  that  of  which  we 
have  endeavored  to  portray  the  more  characteristic  fea- 
tures, is  a  fact  both  fearful  and  momentous,  whetlier  we 
regard  it  as  an  indication  or  as  an  influence,  —  as  a  faith- 
ful reflection  of  the  moral  condition  of  the  people  among 
whom  it  flourishes,  or  as  the  most  pow^erful  determining 
cause  of  that  condition.     The  more  inherent  and  univer- 


180  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 


sally  diffused  excellences  and  defects  of  national  charac- 
ter may,  ^ve  believe,  be  discerned  more  truly  in  the  favor- 
ite dramas  and  novels  than  in  any  other  ^Jroductions  of 
the  national  mind.  They  show  the  sort  of  recreation 
which  is  instinctively  recurred  to  when  the  tension  of 
pursuit  and  effort  is  relaxed,  —  the  natural  tendency 
of  the  unbent  bow.  They  also  show  the  food  which 
is  hal)itually  presented  to  the  people  by  those  who  are 
familiar  with  their  appetites  and  tastes,  in  their  most 
impressible  and  passively  recipient  moods.  And  what 
justifies  us  in  drawing  the  most  condemnatory  and  mel- 
ancholy conclusions  from  the  multiplication  and  success 
of  the  works  we  have  been  considering  is,  that  they  are 
characteristic,  and  not  exceptional.  They  are  not  the  re- 
past provided  by  an  inferior  class  of  writers  for  the  inter- 
est and  amusement  of  an  inferior  class  of  readers.  They 
form  the  light  reading,  the  hcUes-lcttres,  of  the  vast  major- 
ity —  of  the  generality,  in  fact  —  of  educated  men  and 
women.  They  indicate  the  order  of  thoughts  and  fancies 
to  which  these  habitually  and  by  preference  turn,  the 
plots  which  interest  them  most,  the  characters  which 
seem  to  them  most  piquant  or  most  familiar,  the  refiec- 
tioris  which  stir  their  feelings  the  most  deeply,  the  prin- 
ciples or  sentiments  by  which  their  actions  are  most 
iisually  guided,  the  virtues  they  most  admire,  the  vices 
they  most  tolerate  ;  —  they  reflect,  in  a  word,  the  daily 
life  and  features  of  themselves,  and  of  the  circles  in 
which  they  live  and  move. 

These  productions,  too,  for  the  most  part  are  written 
with  great  power' and  beauty,  often  with  as  much  eleva- 
tion of  sentiment  as  is  compatible  with  the  absence  of 
all  strict  principle  and  all  definite  morality.  There  is 
plenty  of  religion,  and  much  even  that  is  simple,  touch- 
ing, and  true ;  but  it  is  religion  as  affection  and  emotion, 
—  never  as  guide,  governance,  or  creed.  There  is  some 
reverence  and  much  gratitude  towards  God  ;  but  little 
idea  of  obedience,  sacrifice,  or  devotion.  There  is  adula- 
tion and  expectation,  rather  than  worship  or  service. 
Then,  again,  there  is  vast  sympathy  with  the  suffering 


FRENCH  FICTION.  181 


and  the  poor,  —  deep  and  genuine,  if  often  irrational  and 
extravagant;  but  it  commonly  degenerates  into  senseless 
animosity  towards  the  rich,  lawless  hatred  of  settled  in- 
stitutions, and  frantic  rebellion  against  the  righteous 
chain  of  cause  and  effect  which  governs  social  well-being. 
There  are  delineations  of  rajiturous,  irreproachable,  almost 
angelic  love ;  but  some  unhallowed  memory,  or  some  dis- 
ordered association,  almost  always  steps  in  to  stain  the 
idol  and  to  desecrate  the  shrine.  There  are  eloquence, 
pathos,  and  fancy  in  rich  profusion ;  characters  of  higli 
endowment  and  noble  aspiration  ;  scenes  of  exquisite  ten- 
derness and  chaste  affection  ;  pictures  of  saintly  purity 
and  martyr-like  devotion  ;  —  but  something  theatrical, 
morbid,  and  meretricious  mingles  with  and  mars  the 
whole.     There  is  every  flower  of  Paradise, 

"  But  the  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over  them  all." 

The  grandest  gifts  placed  at  the  service  of  the  lowest  pas- 
sions ;  the  holiest  sentiments  and  the  fondest  moments 
painted  in  the  richest  colors  of  the  fancy,  only  to  be 
withered  by  cynical  doubt  or  soiled  by  cynical  indecency  ; 
the  most  secret  and  sacred  recesses  of  the  soul  explored 
and  mastered,  not  for  reverential  contemplation  of  their 
beauties  and  their  mysteries,  but  in  order  to  expose  them, 
with  a  hideous  grin,  —  naked,  sensitive,  and  shrinking, — 
to  the  desecrating  sneers  of  a  misbelieving  and  mocking 
world :  —  such  is  the  work  which  genius  must  stoop  to  do, 
when  faith  in  what  is  good,  reverence  for  what  is  pure, 
and  relish  for  what  is  natural  have  died  out  from  a 
nation's  heart ! 


CHATEAUBPtIA:N'D. 

aPiEAT  men,  of  the  verj  first  order  of  greatness,  — 
"  the  heights  and  pinnacles  of  human  mind," —  are 
of  no  country.  They  are  cosmopolitan,  not  national. 
They  belong  not  to  the  Teutonic,  or  the  Anglo-Saxon,  or 
the  Italian,  or  the  Gallic  race,  but  to  the  Human  race. 
They  are  stamped  with  the  features,  rich  M'ith  the  endow- 
ments, mighty  with  the  power,  instinct  with  the  life,  not 
of  this  or  that  phase  or  section  of  humanity,  but  of  hu- 
manity itself,  in  its  most  unlimited  development  and  its 
loftiest  possibilities.  There  is  no  apparent  reason  why 
they  might  not  have  been  born  in  any  one  of  the  nations 
into  whicli  the  civilized  modern  world  is  divided,  as  well 
as  in  anotlier.  The  universal  elements  of  their  charac- 
ter and  their  intelligence  override  and  obliterate  the 
special  ones.  We  do  not  think  of  Shakespeare  and 
Bacon,  of  Spinoza  and  Descartes,  of  Newton  and  Gali- 
leo, of  Columbus  or  Michael  Angelo,  of  Kant  or  Goethe, 
as  Frenchmen  or  Englishmen,  Germans  or  Italians, 
but  as  MEN,  whose  capacities  and  whose  achievements 
are  at  once  the  patrimony  and  the  illustration  of  all 
peoples  and  all  lands  alike. 

But  there  are  great  men  of  a  secondary  stature  and  a 
more  bounded  range,  —  men  darkly  wise  and  imperfectly 
and  irregularly  great,  yet  whose  greatness  cannot  be  dis- 
puted, since,  in  spite  of  many  moral  shortcomings  and 
mucli  intellectual  frailty,  they  have  filled  a  large  space 
in  the  world's  eye,  have  done  good  service  and  earned 
higli  fame,  have  notably  influenced  the  actions  and  the 
thoughts  of  their  contemporaries,  and  produced  works 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  183 


"  which  after-times  will  not  willingly  let  die," —  and  yet 
who  are  so  prominently  marked  with  the  imj^ress  of  their 
age  and  country,  that  no  one  can  for  a  moment  fail  to 
recognize  their  origin.  Every  page  of  their  writings,  ev- 
ery incident  of  their  career,  every  power  they  evince, 
every  weakness  they  betray,  proclaims  aloud  the  Briton 
or  the  Frank.  And  we  speak  here  not  only  of  men  of 
talent,  but  of  men  of  unquestionable  genius  too.  "Talent," 
as  Sir  James  Mackintosh  well  defined  it,  is  "  habitual 
power  of  execution " :  it  is  of  many  descriptions  ;  it 
may  be  generated  to  some  extent ;  it  may  be  cultivated 
to  almost  any  extent ;  and  wdll  naturally  have  a  lo- 
cal stamp  and  coloring.  "  Genius  "  implies  a  special 
gift,  an  innate  and  peculiar  endowment ;  Providence, 
with  a  mysterious  and  uncontrollal)le  sovereignty,  drops 
the  seed  into  any  soil ;  it  might  be  expected,  therefore, 
to  be  purely  personal,  rather  than  redolent  of  time  and 
place.  Yet,  except  in  tlie  case  of  those  paramount  and 
abnormal  Intelligences  of  whom  we  have  spoken  above, 
men  of  genius,  for  the  most  part,  are  essentially  national 
and  secular,  —  visibly  stamped  witli  the  image  and  su- 
perscription of  the  era  in  which  they  lived,  and  the  land 
which  gave  them  birth. 

Of  this  secondary  order  of  great  men, — unquestionably 
a  man  of  genius,  unquestionably  also  and  i^ar  excellence  a 
Frenchman,  and  a  Frenchman  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
—  Chateaubriand  was  one  of  the  most  eminent  and  the 
most  special.  His  career,  his  character,  and  his  writings 
are  M'ell  worth  the  pains  of  studying.  His  career  ex- 
tended over  the  whole  of  the  most  momentous  and  excit- 
ing epoch  of  modern  history,  and  was  involved  in  some 
of  its  most  stirring  scenes.  He  was  born  in  1768,  and 
died  in  1848.  He  was  old  enough  to  feel  an  interest  in 
the  estaljlishment  of  American  Independence ;  and  he 
lived  to  see  the  United  States  swell  in  nuniber  from  thir- 
teen to  thirty-three,  and  their  statesmen  dwindle  in  ca- 
pacity from  Washington  to  Polk.  He  was  presented  in 
his  eighteenth  year  to  Louis  XVI.  in  the  days  of  his  gran- 
deur at  Versailles,  and  he  might  have  been  presented  in 


184  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

his  eightieth  year  to  Louis  Napoleon,  at  the  Elysee,  as 
he  marcliefl  back  from  exile  on  his  way  to  the  imperial 
throne.  He  was  a  fugitive  to  England  in  his  youtli,  and 
ambassador  to  England  in  his  old  age.  He  served  Napo- 
leon, and  he  served  Charles  X.  He  lived  through  tlie 
three  great  moral,  political,  and  social  convulsions  of  mod- 
ern times,  —  the  revolution  of  1789,  the  revolution  of  1830, 
the  revolution  of  1848.  He  was  born  under  feudalism; 
he  died  under  socialism.  He  opened  his  eyes  on  France 
wlien  she  was  an  ancient  and  hereditary  monarchy ;  lie 
l)cheld  her  "everything  in  turn  and  nothing  long";  he 
lived  to  see  the  Second  liepublic,  and  almost  to  see  the 
Second  Empire.  His  writings,  varied  in  their  range, — 
romantic,  religious,  polemic,  and  biographical,  —  are  all 
peculiar  and  characteristic,  and  full  of  energy  and  warmth. 
By  the  common  consent  of  his  countrymen,  he  is  regarded 
as  having  carried  the  poetry  of  prose  composition  to  a 
pitch  never  approached  by  any  one  before  or  since,  ex- 
cept Eousseau ;  and  in  that  style  of  refined  acrimony, 
quiet  thrusts  wdth  polished  rapier,  and  graceful  throwing 
of  poisoned  epigrammatic  javelins,  which  is  so  peculiarly 
French  and  which  Frenchmen  so  inordinately  value,  he 
had  confessedly  no  rival.  He  was,  moreover,  a  real 
power  in  literature :  his  controversial  writings  undeniably 
exercised  great  influence  over  political  transactions,  and 
his  sentimental  writings  exercised  a  still  wider  and  more 
indisputable  influence  over  the  taste  and  tone  of  the 
lighter  productions  of  his  age.  His  character,  Anally, 
both  in  its  strength  and  its  weakness,  was  peculiarly 
French.  His  unsociability  apart,  he  might  almost  be 
taken  as  the  typical  man  of  his  class,  time,  and  country, 
—  greatly  exaggerated,  however,  especially  in  his  defects. 
A  sense  of  honor,  quick,  sensitive,  and  fiery,  rather 
than  national  or  deep  ;  an  hereditary  high  breeding  whicli 
displayed  itself  rather  in  exquisite  grace  and  urbanity 
of  manner  than  in  real  chastening  of  spirit ;  a  native 
chivalry  of  temper  and  demeanor,  but  too  superficial 
to  render  him  truly  either  generous  or  amiable ;  vanity 
ignobly  excessive  and  absolutely  childish ;  and   egotism 


CHATEAUBFilAND.  185 


carried  to  a  point  at  which  it  became  quite  a  crime,  and 
ahiiost  a  disease ;  —  such  were  the  prominent  features  of 
Chateaubriand,  according  to  every  portrait  we  possess. 

Of  Chateaubriand's  early  years  we  know  little  that  is 
reliable,  for  we  know  nothing  beyond  what  he  has  told  us 
himself.  His  reminiscences  of  this  period,  it  is  true,  oc- 
cupy quite  a  sufficient  portion  of  his  autobiography ;  but 
the  Memoircs  d'oaire  Toiiihc,  in  which  he  records  them, 
though  begun  when  in  the  prime  of  life,  were  so  often 
retouched  and  altered  in  later  years,  when  his  memory 
was  failing  and  his  imagination  was  every  day  growing 
more  lawless  and  untruthful,  and  they  are,  moreover,  so 
uniformly  and  obviously  the  production  of  a  writer  who 
sought  to  discover  what  was  becoming  rather  than  to  re- 
member what  was  correct,  that  we  can  trust  their  state- 
ments only  when  in  themselves  probable  and  character- 
istic. We  do  not  mean  to  charge  him  with  intentional 
falsehood  in  relating  the  events  either  of  his  earlier  or 
later  life ;  but  his  fancy  was  so  vivid  and  his  vanity  so 
irritable  and  insatiable,  he  had  so  rooted  a  conviction 
that  everything  connected  witli  the  Vicomte  de  Chateau- 
briand must  be  singular  and  wonderful,  he  was  so  con- 
stantly en  representation  both  before  himself  and  before 
the  world,  he  was  so  full  of  the  most  transparent  affecta- 
tions a3  to  his  own  sentiments,  —  in  a  word,  he  was  so 
habitually  insincere  with  himself  (whether  consciously 
or  unconsciously  we  cannot  pronounce),  that  we  never 
know,  unless  we  can  check  his  nan'ative  from  indepen- 
dent sources,  how  far  we  are  dealing  with  fact  or  fiction. 
AVe  come  across  instances  of  this  inaccuracy  and  un- 
faithfulness in  almost  every  page  of  his  Memoirs ;  so 
that  we  can  proceed  only  with  doubt  and  caution,  mak- 
ing ample  allowance  as  we  go  along  for  the  motives 
which  Ave  know  to  have  been  at  work. 

Francjois-Kene  de  Chateaubriand  was  born  September 
4,  1768,  at  Saint-Malo  in  Brittany,  —  most  reluctantly, 
as  he  informs  us,  against  his  strong  desire  and  in 
cruel  disregard  of  his  most  vehement  protests.  TMie  dis- 
taste for  life,  which  he  loses  no  opportunity  of  express- 


180  LITERARY  AND  SOCIIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

ing,  —  and  which  "wc  may  well  conceive  was  in  a  meas- 
ure genuine,  for  sellish  men  and  proud  men  are  seldom 
happy,  —  manifested  itself  in  liim,  we  are  re([uired  to  be- 
lieve, before  his  birth.  He  was  not  the  eldest  son ;  his 
father  wanted  a  second  boy,  in  order  to  secure  the  trans- 
mission of  the  family  name ;  but  Chateaubriand  was  so 
unwilling  to  come  into  the  world  that  he  sent  four  sis- 
ters bei'ore  him,  one  after  another,  in  the  vain  hope  of 
quenching  his  parent's  insatiable  desire  of  offspring. 
"  Je  fus  le  dernier  de  ces  dix  enfants.  II  est  probable 
que  mes  quatres  soeurs  durent  leur  existence  au  desir  de 
mon  pere  d'avoir  son  nom  assure  par  I'arrive  d'un  second 
gar(jon  :  — jc  re'sistais ;  javais  unc  aversion  'pour  la  vie" * 
He  was  a  delicate  infant :  his  life  was  in  some  danger, 
but  was  spared  at  the  instance  of  a  vow  made  by  his 
nurse  to  the  patron  saint  of  her  village.  His  way  of  re- 
cording this  childish  peril  is  so  characteristic  in  the  turn 
of  sentiment  and  expression,  that  it  is  worth  quoting : 
"  Je  n'avais  vecu  que  queh^ues  heures,  et  la  pesanteur  du 
tcmjis  etait  deja  marquee  sur  vion  front.  Que  ne  me  lais- 
sait-on  mourir  ?  H  entrait  dans  les  conseils  de  Dieu 
d'accorder  au  voeu  de  I'obscurite  et  de  I'innocence  la  con- 
servation des  jours  quhme  vaine  rcnommee  mcna^ait  d'at- 
teindrc." 

The  father  of  Chateaubriand  was  a  Breton  gentleman 
of  ancient  family  but  decayed  fortunes.  He  had  ac- 
quired a  moderate  competence  himself  by  a  step  which 
in  those  days  indicated  much  good  sense  and  force  of 
character :  he  had  entered  the  mercantile  marine,  made 
one  or  two  successful  voyages,  and  then  settled  for  some 
years  in  the  West  Indian  colonies.  As  soon  as  he  was 
in  a  position  of  reasonable  independence,  he  returned  to 
his  native  land,  and  purchased  at  Gombourg,  near  Saint- 
Malo,  an  old  ancestral  estate  and  chateau  ;  but  the  soil 
was  poor,  the  cliateau  dreary,  and  the  site  desolate  and 
forlorn.  The  son  has  left  a  most  uninviting  picture  of 
both  the  paternal  residence  and  the  paternal  character,  — 

*  In  another  passage  he  speaks  of  "  la  chambre  oil  ma  ruei'e  ininfiigea 
la  vie  "  (Vol.  I.  p.  23). 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  187 


the  one  cold  and  gloomy,  the  other  severe,  silent,  pas- 
sionate, and  morose,  with  an  inordinate  pride  of  name 
and  race  as  his  predominating  moral  feature.  In  refer- 
ence to  this  family  pride,  \ve  must  notice  one  of  the  first 
of  Chateaubriand's  affectations  and  insincerities.  He 
pretends  to  despise  all  such  weakness ;  he  loudly  pro- 
claims the  hollowness  of  all  such  pretensions ;  he  stig- 
matizes them  as  "  odious  in  his  father,  ridiculous  in  his 
brother,  and  too  manifest  even  in  his  nephew " ;  and 
he  adds  with  some  naivete,  "  Je  ne  suis  pas  bien  siir,  malgre 
mes  inclinations  republicaines,  de  m'en  etre  completement 
affranchi,  bien  que  je  I'aie  soigneusement  cachee."  So 
far  is  he,  however,  from  being  either  free  from  this  weak- 
ness or  able  to  hide  it,  that  he  betrays  it  in  his  every 
page.  He  loses  no  occasion  of  enumerating  his  ances- 
tral glories  and  connections  ;  he  describes  with  irrepres- 
sible self-glorification  his  entering  the  royal  carriage  and 
hunting  with  the  king,  —  privileges  only  granted  to  those 
of  undoubted  noble  birth ;  he  devotes  a  whole  chapter  to 
his  pedigree ;  he  returns  to  the  subject  again  and  again ; 
wdien  his  father  dies,  he  gives  an  extract  from  the  mor- 
tuary register  detailing  in  full  all  his  titles  and  formali- 
ties ;  he  assures  us  that  "  if  he  inherited  the  infatuation 
of  his  father  and  his  brother, "  he  could  easily  prove  his 
descent  from  the  Dukes  of  Bretajjne,  the  interminciling 
of  his  blood  with  that  of  the  royal  family  of  England ; 
and  he  adds  a  long  note,  with  further  particulars  and 
pieces  jitstificatives,  at  the  end  of  his  Memoirs.  And 
then  he  descends  to  the  unworthy  affectation  of  apolo- 
gizing for  tliese  'tieillcs  viiseres'  and  'puerilcs  recitations^  on 
the  ground  tliat  they  are  given  for  the  sake  of  his  neph- 
ews, "  who  think  more  of  such  matters  than  he  does," 
and  in  order  to  explain  the  dominant  passion  of  his 
father.  "  Quant  a  moi"  (he  says),  "je  ne  me  glorifie  ni 
ne  me  plains  de  I'ancienne  ou  de  la  nouvelle  societe.  Si, 
dans  la  premiere,  j'etais  le  chevalier  ou  le  vicomte  de 
Chateaubriand,  dans  la  seconde  je  suis  Francois  de  Cha- 
teaubriand ;  jc  i^refere  mon  nom  a  nion  titre." 

The  young  inheritor  of  all  these  past  and  future  glories 


1H8  IJTKItAIiY   AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

fiiifrcirod  from  a  defective  education  and  a  neglected  cliild- 
liDud.  n«!  passed  sonrje  j)ortions  of  interrupted  years  at 
the  Kcniinuries  of  Dol,  Jiennes,  and  Dinan,  successively, 
Ijcfore  wiiicli  jxsriod  lie  siHjnis  to  iiave  sjient  liis  time  in 
\vand(!rin;^'  idon;,'  tint  wild  slions  f)f  J'rittjmy,  f)r  j)layinfi; 
\viLli  the-  villa;i;(!  urchins  of  Saint-Mido.  Jle  ntiul  iitf'ully, 
but  learnt  not hin;^'  tIiorf)u,i,dily.  JI(!  gained  the  admira- 
tion of  his  instructors,  he  t(!lls  us,  on  account  of  his  sin<,Mi- 
lar  memory  for  words,  —  it  seems  to  liave  been  liis  one 
s])ecial  faculliy  in  youth  ;  hut  lie  arids  characteristically, 
"  OiK!  thinj^  humiliates  mo  in  reference  to  this:  memory 
is  often  the  endowment  of  fools;  it  belon^'S  usually  to 
lujavy  minds,  rcmihtred  yet  more  j)ond(!rous  l)y  the  ha^'^^aj^e 
with  ^which  they  are  oveiloadcid."  ]Ie  actually  feels 
ashamed  oi'  poss('Ssin<;  a  good  memory  because  lie  cannot 
liavc  it  all  to  hiinsiilf,  but  must  share  the  endowment 
with  un<^drted  men!  The  remainder  of  his  youth  was 
])ass(!d  principally  in  his  ung<;nial  home  at  (.'(unliourg, 
lost  in  idlciKiss  and  r(!veri(!S,  roaming  among  the  woods, 
gazing  at  sunsc^ts,  building  castles  in  the  air,  and  indul- 
ging in  those  vague,  semi-erotic,  aemi-ethereal  fancies,  so 
common  to  imaginative  minds  at  the  o])ening  of  life  ;  but 
of  whi(;h  —  full  of  his  notion  that  everything  relating  to 
liim  was  anf)malous  and  uni(pie  —  lu;  says:  "  I  do  not 
know  if  the.  history  of  th(!  human  heart  offers  another 
cxam[)le  of  this  sort  of  thing."  His  sister  Lucilc,  who 
seems  to  have  Ixumi  a  charming  person,  was  his  sole  com- 
panion and  comfort  in  this  iingcsnial  and  un])rofitable  life. 
J^^ven  with  her  it  was  inelancholy  entuigh  ;  without  her  it 
would  have  b(!en  insu])i)ortable.  It  nourished  and  en- 
ri(;he(l  his  ]»oeti(;a.l  imagination,  beyond  (pu'stion  ;  but  it 
nouiish(!d  and  consolidated  all  his  moral  failings  at  the 
SiuiK!  time,  —  \\\n  J'nrtinrhr,  and  somln'e  humor,  his  unaiiii- 
abl(>  egotism,  his  slavery  to  ])assion  and  to  faiu^y,  and  his 
normal  attitude  of  self-study,  self-wonder,  and  self-wor- 
shij).  His  father  rose  at  four  o'clock,  summer  and  winter:' 
and  his  harsh  voice  calling  for  his  valet  nssounded  through 
th(!  house.  At  noon  the  iamily  asscMiibhid  I'or  dinner  in 
the  great  liall,  previous  to  which  hour  they  worked  or 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  1 89 


studied  ia  their  own  rooms,  or  were  supposed  to  do  so. 
Alter  dinner  tlie  fatlier  went  to  shoot,  or  fish,  or  look  after 
liis  farm;  the  mother  went  to  Jier  oratoiy;  the  daugliter 
to  lier  room  and  lier  tajnHScric  ;  and  the  son  to  tlie  woods, 
or  to  his  hooks  and  dreams.  At  eij^dit  o'chjck  th(!y  sup])ed ; 
then  the  father  shot  owls,  and  the  rest  of  the  i'amily 
looked  at  the  stars,  till  ten  o'clock,  when  they  retired  to 
rest. 

"  Tho  evcnin^^s  of  autumn  and  winter  were  p<asse(l  in  a 
somewhat  difforcnt  muruier.  When  Kupfjcr  was  over,  and  tho 
four  convives  had  returned  frotn  tho  iahlo  to  the  fiioplaoc,  my 
mother,  with  a  si^li,  throw  hcnsolf  upon  an  old  couch,  and  a 
stand  witli  one  candle  was  placed  beside  her.  Lucile  and  I 
sat  hy  the  fire ;  the  servants  cleared  tho  tabic  and  retired. 
Then  my  father  began  his  walk,  and  never  stopped  till  bed- 
time, lie  wore  an  ohl  white  rohe-de-chamhre,  or  rather  a  sort 
of  mantle,  which  I  had  never  seen  on  any  other  man.  His 
head,  nearly  buld,  was  covered  with  a  great  white  cap,  which 
stood  straight  up.  When  ho  walked  away  from  tho  hearth, 
the  largo  room  was  so  dimly  lighted  by  its  solitary  taper  that 
he  became  invisible,  — his  stops  oidy  wore  hoard  in  the  dark- 
nef?s.  (iradiially  ho  returned  towards  tlie  light,  and  emerged 
little  l)y  little  out  of  tho  gloom,  like  a  spectre,  with  his  white 
rol)o,  white  ca]),  and  long  [)ale  f;ico.  Lucile  and  1  exchanged 
a  few  words  in  a  low  voice  while  he  was  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  but  wo  were  silent  tho  instant  ho  ap[)roachod  us. 
As  he  passed,  ho  intpiired  of  what  wo  were  speaking.  Seized 
with  fear,  we  made  no  reply,  and  he  continued  his  walk.  Tho 
rest  of  tho  evening  nothing  was  heard  but  the  measured  sound 
of  his  steps,  my  mother's  sighs,  and  tho  whistling  of  the  wind. 
The  castle  clock  struck  ten.  My  father  stopjtod  ;  tho  same 
spring  which  had  raised  tho  hammer  of  tho  clock  seemed  to 
have  suspended  his  steps.  He  drew  out  his  watch,  wound  it 
up;  took  up  a  largo  silver  torch,  with  a  largo  wax  taper,  went 
for  a  moment  into  the  little  western  tower,  then  returned, 
torch  in  hand,  and  went  towards  his  bedroom  in  tho  eastern 
tower.  Lucilo  and  1  put  ourselves  in  his  way,  emljraced  him, 
and  wished  him  a  good  night.  Without  replying,  ho  bent 
towards  us  his  hard  and  wrinkled  cheek,  i)roceoded  on  his 
way,  and  withdrew  to  the  bottom  of  tho  tower,  and  wo  hoard 
tho  doors  close  after  him. 


190  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS.' 

"  Then  the  charm  was  broken  ;  my  mother,  my  sister,  and 
myself,  all  traiisf(jrmed  into  statiics  by  my  father's  presence, 
suddenly  recovered  our  vitality.  The  first  eflf'ect  of  our  dis- 
enchantment was  to  produce  a  torrent  of  words.  If  silence 
had  oppressed  ns,  it  paid  dearly  for  it. 

"  The  flood  of  woi'ds  being  exhausted,  I  called  the  chamber- 
maid, and  conducted  my  mother  and  sister  to  their  apartment. 
Before  I  withdrew,  they  made  mc  look  under  the  beds,  up  the 
chimneys,  behind  the  doors,  and  search  the  staircase,  passages, 
and  neighboring  corridors.  All  the  traditions  of  the  castle, 
its  robbers  and  spectres,  suddeidy  recurred  to  their  memory. 
The  people  were  firmly  persuaded  that  a  Count  de  Combourg, 
with  a  wooden  leg,  who  died  three  centuries  before,  appeared 
at  certain  epochs,  and  that  he  had  been  met  on  the  grand 
staircase  of  the  tower  :  sometimes,  also,  the  wooden  leg  walked 
by  itself  along  with  a  black  cat." 

We  may  readily  concede  that  a  youth  thus  passed  was 
not  calculated  to  inspire  any  vivid  love  of  existence,  and 
we  have  no  doubt  also  that  Chateaubriand  was  constitu- 
tionally of  a  melancholic  temperament ;  but  still  tliat 
weariness  and  ennui  of  life  which  he  so  ceaselessly  parades 
in  liis  Memoirs  becomes  nauseous  at  last.  It  is  thrust  in 
our  faces  on  all  occasions,  and  without  occasion  ;  it  is 
exaggerated,  it  is  morbid,  it  is  carefully  fostered,  it  is 
profusely  manured ;  and  it  is  never  checked  or  modified 
Ly  any  Christian  sentiment  or  any  manly  principle. 
Chateaubriand's  early  years  were  undeniably  full  of 
gloomy  and  depressing  influences,  but  they  were  amply 
redeemed  by  subsequent  successes.  He  achieved  fame 
while  still  young ;  he  rose  to  the  height  of  grandeur  and 
renown,  according  to  his  estimate  of  such  things  ;  he  was 
loved  by  many  and  admired  by  all ;  he  lived  long,  he 
lived  actively,  he  lived  on  the  scene  of  the  most  thrilling 
events,  and  he  lived  through  a  period  more  replete  than 
any  other  with  interest  and  excitement.  If  he  had  been 
less  of  an  egotist,  or  more  of  a  Christian,  he  must  liave 
been  thankful  for  life  at  least,  even  if  he  had  not  con- 
sciously enjoyed  it.  Yet  the  burden  of  his  song  is  the  same 
at  every  age.     In  the  Natchez  (one  of  liis  earliest  works) 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  191 


he  writes  :  "  Je  m'ennuie  de  la  vie ;  I'ennui  m'a  toujoiirs 
devore :  ce  qui  intercsse,  Ics  autres  Iwmmes  ne  inc  touche 

point Je    suis  vertueux    sans    plaisir:    si  j'etais 

crirainel,  je  le  serais  sans  remords.  Je  voudrais  n'etre 
pas  ne,  ou  etre  a  jamais  oublie."  In  the  Memoircs  cVoutrc 
Tombe  he  writes,  under  the  date  of  1821 :  "  Religion  a 
part,  le  bonheur  est  de  s'ignorer,  et  d'arriver  a  la  mort  sans 
avoir  senti  la  vie."  Eleven  years  later,  when  he  was 
sixty-four  years  old,  he  writes  to  a  lady  friend  :  "  Puis- 
sance et  amour,  tout  m'est  indifferent,  tout  m'importune. 
J'ai  mon  plan  de  solitude  en  Italie,  et  la  mort  au  bout." 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  his  youthful  studies  and 
reveries  were  wholly  unproductive :  he  seems  to  have 
talked  well  when  excited  and  sufiiciently  at  ease  to  over- 
come his  native  shyness  ;  and  his  sister,  struck  with  some 
remarkable  indications  of  talent,  persuaded  him  to  write. 
He  did  so  for  a  while ;  then  he  became  discouraged, 
tlirew  his  work  aside,  and  grumbled  at  Lucile  for  having 
suggested  it.  Even  then  he  thought  only  of  fame,  not 
of  interest  in  his  subject,  nor  of  the  simple  expression 
of  his  sentiments  and  fancies.  "  J'en  voulus  a  Lucile 
d'avoir  fait  naitre  en  moi  un  penchant  malheureux :  je 
cessais  d'ecrire,  et  je  me  pris  apleurer  ma  (jloire  a  vcnir." 
He  began  by  writing  verses,  as  nearly  all  young  men  do ; 
and  lie  would  fain  persuade  his  readers  that  so  competent 
a  critic  as  M.  de  Fontanes  found  them  excellent.  "  J  ecris 
longtemps  en  vers  avant  d'ecrire  en  prose :  M.  de  Fon- 
tanes pretendait  que  favais  rcgu  les  deux  mstrumens." 
Unfortunately  for  Chateaubriand,  M.  de  Fontanes  gave 
his  own  version  of  the  matter  to  M.  Villemain,  showing 
that  the  poet  must  have  magnified  some  enforced  polite- 
ness into  deliberate  eulogy.  The  critic  signalized  in  the 
verse  of  Chateaubriand  a  want  of  spirit  and  real  poetry 
which  surprised  him.  "  Car,  entin  "  (said  he),  "  k  travers 
les  enormites,  il  est  admirable  de  creations  de  style  dans 
sa  prose  :  c'est  toute  autre  chose  dans  sa  poesie  ;  on  dirait 
qu'il  se  dedommage  et  qu'il  fait  amende  honorable  de  ses 
hardiesses  par  le  prosaisme  et  la  timidite."* 

*  Villemain   (La  Tribune,  Chateaubriand),  p.  17.      In  another  part 


102  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

Meantime  the  young  aspirant  liad  embraced  no  profes- 
sion, though  he  had  dreamed  of  nearly  all  and  was  unfit 
i'ur  any.  "  His  spirit  of  independence,"  he  himself  says, 
"  rendered  him  averse  I'rom  every  sort  of  service ;  /ai  en 
tnoi  unc  impossihiliU  d'obeir.  Les  voyages  me  tentaient, 
mais  je  sentais  que  je  ne  les  aimerais  que  seul,  en  sui- 
vant  ma  volonte."  His  father  designed  him  for  the  navy, 
and  sent  him  to  Brest  to  prepare  for  his  commission  ;  Ijut 
he  renounced  the  career  for  some  unexplained  cause,  and 
returned  to  the  paternal  mansion.  His  mother  wanted 
to  make  him  a  priest;  but  Chateaubriand  felt  no  vocation 
in  that  line,  though  some  preliminary  studies  were  un- 
dertaken, and  he  actually  received  the  tonsure  from  the 
Bishop  of  Saint-Malo,  as  a  step  towards  becoming  at 
some  future  period  a  Knight  of  ^lalta.  He  at  one  time 
resolved  to  obtain  some  appointment  in  the  East  Indies, 
and  his  father  consented  to  let  him  dispose  of  himself 
in  this  manner ;  but  months  flowed  by,  and  no  active  . 
measures  "were  taken  to  realize  the  scheme.  At  last  the 
paternal  patience  was  worn  out :  a  commission  in  the 
army  was  obtained,  and  the  future  celebrity  was  sent  off 
to  join  his  regiment  with  a  hundred  louis  in  his  pocket 
and  a  parting  allocution,  which  was  rather  a  scolding 
than  a  benediction.  The  young  ensign  presented  him- 
self at  head-quarters,  and  for  a  \vhile  did  duty  with  his 
corps ;  but  he  saw-  no  service  and  learned  no  discipline, 
spending  most  of  his  time  in  Paris,  watching  the  gradual 
opening  of  the  Eevolution.  The  state  of  afi'aivs  soon 
became  uncomfortable  for  an  officer  of  noble  family  in 
the  service  of  the  king ;  Chateaubriand  appears  to  have 
been  still  too  egotistical  a  dreamer  to  feel  any  absorbing 
interest  in  the  great  drama  that  was  then  evolving ;  he 
■was  seized  with  a  fancy  for  discovering  the  northwest 
passage,  —  so  at  least  he  says  ;  but  probably  he  was  only 

of  his  Memoirs,  Chateaubnaml,  in  reference  to  the  novel  and  unclas.<ic 
style  of  his  earlier  writings,  observes  :  "  Toutefois,  nion  ami  (Fontaues), 
ail  lieu  de  se  revolter  centre  ma  barbaric,  se  possionna pour  die."  On 
this  M.  Villemain  remarks  :  "  il.  de  Chateaubriand  is  wrong  here.  No 
one;  as  we  can  testify,  was  more  thoroughly  impatient  of  the  affectation, 
barbarous  or  not,  which  disfigures  Atala  and  Rene,  but  he  was  charmed 
with  their  beauties  "  (p.  75). 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  193 


restless  and  adventurous.'  However,  he  sailed  for  Amer- 
ica ;  renounced  his  alleged  scheme  on  the  first  discour- 
agement he  met  with ;  wandered  awhile  in  the  prairies 
and  the  forests  of  the  new  world ;  gained  a  glimpse  into 
the  poetry  of  savage  life,  of  which  he  made  the  most  in 
Atala  and  the  Natchez;  and  returned  suddenly  to  France, 
with  no  definite  reason  or  determinate  purpose,  on  hear- 
ing of  the  king's  flight  to  Varennes.  One  passage  in  the 
Memoircs  relating  to  this  period  is  so  indicative  of  cer- 
"tain  features  of  Chateaubriand,  that  we  must  turn  aside 
for  a  moment  to  call  attention  to  it.  On  the  voyage  out 
he  had  formed  an  intimacy  with  a  fellow-passenger,  an 
Engiisliman  named  Francis  Tulloch,  who  seems  to  have 
possessed  both  talent  and  merit.  This  was  in  1701. 
Thirty-one  years  afterwards,  in  1822,  when  Chateaubri- 
and was  at  the  summit  of  his  worldly  grandeur,  as  ambas- 
sador to  England,  Francis  Tulloch  was  living  in  Portland 
Place,  just  opposite  to  the  official  residence  of  his  former 
fellow-traveller  and  intimate.  He  wrote  a  very  friendly 
and  courteous  letter  to  Chateaubriand,  informing  him  of 
their  close  neighborhood,  and  saying  that  thougli  of  course 
he  could  not  make  the  first  advances  towards  the  renewal 
of  intercourse  with  so  great  a  man,  yet  that,  "  on  the 
slightest  intimation  from  the  ambassador  of  a  wish  to  see 
him,  he  should  be  delighted  to  express,  etc.,  etc."  The 
letter  was  complimentary,  —  so  Chateaubriand  gives  it  a 
prominent  place  in  his  Memoircs :  he  quotes  it  "  in  proof 
of  the  accuracy  of  his  recollection  and  the  veracity  of 
his  narrative  "  ;  and  he  then  proceeds  to  some  rather  trite 
and  feeble  reflections  on  the  fading  of  friendship  and  the 
loss  of  friends :  he  ajJj^ears  never  either  to  have  answered 
the  cordial  letter  or  to  have  responded  to  the  modest  invita- 
tion of  his  former  companion.  It  was  so  much  easier  and 
more  becoming  to  moralize  over  the  fidelity  of  others 
than  to  give  any  pledge  of  his  own. 

Throughout  this  portion  of  his  Memoirs,  as,  indeed,  in 
nearly  every  volume,  we  find  constantly  recurring  exam- 
ples, and  very  nauseous  ones,  of  his  besetting  weakness. 
He  never  misses  an  opportunity,  in  season  or  out  of  sea- 

9  M 


194  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

son,  apropos  'and  mal-apropos,  of  instituting  not  exactly 
comparisons  but  rcqiprockcmcns  between  liimself  and 
every  great  and  notable  man  whom  he  can  in  any  v,-ay 
drag  into  the  narrative.  When  lie  shakes  hands  "with 
Washington,  he  cannot  help  contrasting  the  renown  of 
the  one  with  the  then  obscurity  of  the  other,  and  surmis- 
ing tliat  the  great  American  statesman  probably  forgot' 
his  existence  the  day  after  the  presentation.  AVhen  he 
describes  his  residence  at  the  Vallce-cnix-Lovps,  near 
Chatenay,  he  adds  :  "Lorsque  Voltaire  naquit  a  Chatenay 
en  1697,  quel  dtait  I'aspect  du  coteau  ou  se  devait  retirer 
en  1807  I'auteur  du  Genie  die  Cho-istianisme?"  He  can- 
not mention  his  birth  without  reminding  us  that  "twenty 
days  before  him,  at  the  other  extremity  of  France,  was 
born  "  another  great  man,  -^  "  Bonaparte."  On  occasion 
of  his  departure  for  America,  he  observes  :  "  No  one 
troubled  himself  about  me ;  I  was  then,  like  Bonapaoie, 
an  insignificant  ensign,  quite  unknown ;  we  started  to- 
gether, he  and  I,  at  the  same  time ;  I  to  seek  renown  in 
solitude,  he  to-  acquire  glory  among  men."  He  makes 
Mirabeau  say  to  him,  apropos  to  nothing,  what  we  know 
he  said  to  others  in  a  natural  context :  "  lis  ne  me  par- 
donneront  jamais  ma  superiorite."  And  he  adds  more 
consneto :  "  Lorsque  Miralaeau  fixa  ses  regards  sur  moi, 
€ut-il  un  pressentiment  dc  mes  futuritions  ?  "  Once  more : 
the  following  paragraph  is  headed  Mort  de  mon  Pere. 
"  L'annee  meme  ou  je  faisais  a  Candji'ai  mes  premieres 
amies,  on  apprit  la  mort  de  Frederic  II.  Je  suis  ambas- 
sadeur  aupres  du  neveu  de  ce  grand  roi,  et  j'ecris  a  Berlin 
cette  partie  de  mes  memoires.  A  cette  nouvelle  impor- 
tante  p)our  le  p)uhlic,  succ<5da  une  autre  nouvelle,  doulou- 
reuse  pour  moi,"  etc.  Chateaubriand  lost  his  shirts  when 
campaigning  with  the  emigrant  army  near  Treves :  tliis 
reminds  him  (or  makes  liim  invent)  that  Henry  IV. 
found,  just  before  the  battle  of  Ivry,  that  he  had  only 
five  shirts  left.  He  observes  thereon :  "  Le  Bearnais 
gagna  la  bataille  d'lvry  sans  chemises  ;  je  n'ai  pu  rcndre 
sou  royaumc  a  scs  cnfans  en  pcrdant  Ics  micnncs  !"  * 

*  See  also  bis  remarks  on  Canuing  apropos  of  the  Literary  Fund  Din- 
ner, II.  76. 


CnATEAUBRIAND.  195 


Chateaubriand  returned  from  America  as  unsettled  as 
ever  iu  his  mind,  and  poorer  than  ever  in  purse.  Mean- 
time the  Kevolution  made  rapid  progress.  The  emigrant 
army  of  Conde  formed  itself  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Pthine ;  nobles  and  royalists  flocked  to  join  it,  as  fast  as 
tliey  could  contrive  means  of  escape  ;  and  Chateaubriand, 
mindful  of  his  birth  and  antecedents,  and  moved  by  an 
ill-considered  feeling  of  honor,  resolved  to  follow,  their 
example,  though  in  his  heart  he  neither  completely  era- 
braced  their  political  principles,  nor  in  his  conscience 
was  at  all  satisfied  as  to  the  morality  of  the  emigrant 
"warfare.  He  makes  no  secret  of  this  state  of  mind  in 
his  record  of  the  discussions  he  held  with  Malesherbes 
upon  the  subject.  But  he  had  no  money  wherewith  to 
carry  out  his  half-hesitating  purpose :  his  family  could 
not  furnish  him  with  it :  he  married  in  order  to  obtain  it. 
This,  at  least,  is  his  own  account  of  the  matter,  and  we 
have  never  seen  it  contradicted.  "  II  s'agissait  do  me 
trouver  de  1' argent  pour  rejoindre  les  Princes  :  ....  on 
me  maria,  afin  de  me  procurer  le  moyen  de  m'aller  faire 
tuer  au  soutien  d'une  cause  que  je  n'aimais  pas."  His 
sisters  arranged  the  affair.  He  tells  us  that  he  felt  no 
vocation  for  matrimony,  —  none  of  the  qualities  to  make 
a  good  husband ;  since  "  toutes  raes  illusions  etaient  vi- 
vantes ;  rien  n'  etait  (^puisee  en  nioi ;  Tenergie  meme  de 
mon  existence  avait  double  par  mes  courses  ;  j'etais  tour- 
mente  par  la  muse."  Nevertheless  he  told  liis  sisters 
they  might  do  as  they  liked.  "  Faites  doiic  ! "  said  he.  Ac- 
cordingly they  found  a  young  lady  Avith  a  reputed  fortune 
of  twenty  thousand  pounds,  who,  in  spite  of  her  friends' 
opposition,  consented  to  become  Madame  de  Chateaubri- 
and ;  and,  we  believe,  notwithstanding  mortal  anno3''ances, 
never  repented  of  her  complaisance.  She  appears,  both 
by  her  husband's  account  and  by  that  of  M.  Villemain, 
and  of  others  who  knew  her,  to  have  been  clever,  lively, 
and  spiritual,  and  a  really  affectionate  and  devoted  wife. 
Admiring  Chateaubriand  vastly,  but  appreciating  him 
little,  and  approving  and  agreeing  with  him  scarcely 
ever ;  proud  of  his   fame,  but   indifferent  to  literature. 


19G  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS, 

and  never  reading  a  line  of  his  \vorks,  —  the  union  must 
have  been  a  curious,  if  not  precisely  an  ill-assorted  one. 
He  esteemed  and  respected,  but  does  not  pretend  to  have 
loved  her  ;  and,  according  to  our  notions,  he  neglected 
her  shamefully.  lie  deserted  her  almost  immediately 
after  their  marriage,  and  abandoned  her  to  all  the  hor- 
rors and  perils  of  the  Iteign  of  Terror.  He  left  her  be- 
hind him  when  he  went  to  England,  and  seems  for  a  time 
to  have  forgotten  he  was  married ;  he  left  her  when  he 
went  as  Secretary  of  Legation  to  Eome ;  he  left  her  when 
he  went  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Levant ;  in  fact,  he  usually 
left  her  behind  him  whenever  he  went  anywhere.  She 
was  a  kind  of  i)icd-(\-tcrrc  or  furnished  lodging,  which  he 
kept  in  Paris  to  be  ready  for  him  when  he  happened  to 
return,  after  his  restless  wanderings.  The  few  pages 
which  he  devotes  to  her  in  narrating  his  marriage  are 
singularly  cool  and  characteristic.  He  does  full  justice 
to  her  intelligence  and  character,  and  expresses  himself 
grateful  for  her  devotion  and  affectionate  patience  with 
his  faults.  He  intimates  that  her  virtues  made  her  less 
easy  to  live  with  than  his  defects,  but  generously  takes 
no  merit  to  himself  for  his  more  facile  commerce ;  for  he 
says,  that  "resignation,  general  obligingness,  and  serenity 
of  temper"  —  which  no  one  but  himself  ever  dreamed 
of  attributing  to  him  —  "  are  easy  to  a -man  who  is  weary 
and  indifferent  to  everything."  He  then  proceeds  to 
speculate  whether,  possibly,  after  all,  he  may  not  have 
plagued  her  more  than  she  plagued  him ;  and  ends  by  a 
deliberate  and  earnest  disquisition  on  the  problem 
whether  his  marriage  "  did  really  spoil  his  destiny." 
"  No  doubt,"  he  argues,  "  I  should  have  had  more  leisure 
and  should  have  produced  more ;  no  doubt  I  might  ha^•c 
been  better  recei\ed  in  certain  circles  and  among  the 
grandees  of  the  earth ;  no  doubt  Madame  de  Chateaubri- 
and often  bothered  me,  though  she  never  controlled  nm. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  without  her  I  might  have  gone 
to  the  bad,  like  Byron  ;  I  might  have  become  a  disveiiu- 
table  old  dehauche ;  and  after  all,  I  am  not  sure  that  if 
I  had  given  full  scope  to  my  desires,  and  led  a  life  of 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  197 


vagabond  amours,  it  would  have 'added  a  chord  to  my 
lyre,'  or  made  my  voice  more  touching,  or  my  sentiments 
more  profound,  or  my  tones  more  energetic  or  more  tlirill- 
ing."  "  Eetenu  par  un  lien  indissoluble,  j'ai  achete  d'abord 
au  prix  d'un  peu  (Vaincrtume  les  douceurs  que  je  goute 
aujourd'hui.  Je  dois  done  une  tendre  et  eternelle  recon- 
naissance a  ma  femme,  dont  I'attachement  a  <^te  aussi 
touchaut  que  profond  et  sincere.  Elle  a  rendu  ma  vie 
plus  grave,  plus  noble,  plus  honorable,  en  m'inspirant 
tOLijours  le  respect,  sinon  toujours  la  force  des  devoirs." 

Chateaubriand  soon  discovered  that  his  wife's  prop- 
erty, for  the  sake  of  which  he  had  married  lier,  was  all 
but  mythical.  It  had  been  secured  on  the  domains  of 
the  clergy,  and  these  domains  had  been  confiscated  by  the 
nation.  At  all  events,  the  funds,  whether  existing  or 
not,  were  inacessible.  With  great  difficulty  lie  borrowed 
ten  thousand  francs ;  and,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it, 
while  these  were  in  his  pocket,  for  the  iirst  and  only 
time  in  his  life,  lie  was  enticed  by  the  fatal  fascinations  of 
the  gaming-table.  He  lost  all  except  fifteen  hundred 
francs,  and,  in  his  confusion  and  distress  of  mind,  he  left 
these  also  in  a  hackney-coach,  and  told  his  family  that  the 
v:hoh  sum  had  gone  in  this  way.  Tliis  portion,  however,  he 
recovered  the  next  day,  and  with  this  he  emigrated.  The 
army  of  the  Princes,  ill-constituted  and  ill-commanded, 
was,  as  is  well  known,  promptly  defeated  and  dispersed. 
Chateaubriand  escaped  to  England,  and  there  spent  the 
next  seven  years  in  poverty,  privation,  and  some- 
times in  actual  famine,  supporting  himself  partly  by  his 
pen,  and  partly  by  occasional  remittances  from  abroad. 
Here  he  learned  the  tidings  of  his  mother's  imprison- 
ment and  his  brother's  death  upon  the  scaffold,  along 
with  that  of  Malesherbes  and  several  of  his  near  con- 
nections. Part  of  this  exile  was  spent  in  study,  but 
more  in  aimless,  though  not  wholly  unprofitable,  poetic 
revery.  Here  he  wrote,  or  at  least  prepared,  the  Natchez 
and  Atala,  and  here  lie  pulilislied  his  iirst  work,  Essai  sicr 
Ics  E^'volutions,  a  very  crude  performance,  but  displaying 
much  miscellaneous,  superficial,  and  undigested  reading. 


198  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

and  no  small  promise  of  future  talent.  The  book  was 
liLtlo  known,  and  liad  no  success,  —  prohaLly  did  not  de- 
serve any;  t]iou_u;li  it  made  the  author  known  among  his 
fellow-exiles.  He  himself  admits,  in  his  homhastic  way, 
that  it  was  all  Lnt  still-born  :  "  Un  omhre  subite  engloutit 
le  ])remier  rayon  de  ma  gloire." 

Two  episodes  in  this  portion  of  his  life  are  all  tliat  Ave 
need  notice  ;  but  his  mode  of  dealing  with  Ijoth  speaks 
volumes  as  to  the  moral  nature  of  the  man.  He  had  oIj- 
tained,  through  Peltier's*  interposition,  some  archa.'ologi- 
cal  employment  in  the  county  of  Suffolk.  Wliile  in  that 
neighborhood,  circumstances  caused  him  to  reside  for 
some  time  in  the  family  of  a  clergyman  near  Bungay, 
who  had  a  charming  wife  and  an  only  daugliter.  "With 
the  latter,  then  about  fifteen,  according  to  Ciiateaubri- 
and's  account  (every  part  of  this  narrative,  we  may 
observe,  comes  i'rom  himself,  and  is  colored,  if  not  per- 
verted, by  his  peculiarities),  he  was  in  the  habit  of  read- 
ing Italian  ;  he  listened  to  her  music  and  directed  her 
studies.  An  attachment  sprang  up  between  tliem,  wliich 
was  observed  by  the  parents,  who,  anxious  only  for  their 
daugliter's  happiness,  and  too  liberal-minded  to  object  to 
her  marriage  with  a  penniless  exile,  determined  to  offer 
him  lier  hand.  Chateaubriand's  description  of  the  scene 
in  which  the  mother,  herself  still  young  and  beautiiul, 
makes  him  tlie  proposal,  is  disfigured  by  the  bad  taste 
and  the  disposition  to  unworthy  allusions  which  is  so 
offensive  in  several  of  his  writings.  "  Elle  etait  dans  un 
embarras  extreme.  Elle  me  regardait,  baissant  les  yeux, 
rougissant ;  ellc-meme,  seduisante  dans  ce  trouble,  il  n'y  a 
point  dc  sentiment  qiCcUe  netit  pit  rev cndiquer  pour  elle." 
Chateaubriand  was  stupefied  at  the  proposal ;  the  recol- 
lection of  his  own  abandoned  wife  flashed  across  him  ; 
he  avowed  his  marriage  ;  the  mother  fainted,  and  he  fled 
back  to  London,  full  of  remorse  and  a  haunting  half- 
poetic  love.     His  fancy  had  been  vividly  excited,  but  it 

*  TliP  same  French  jniblislier  who  was  afteiwanls  tried  for  a  libel  on 
Bonaparte  ;  a  charge  which  gave  occasion  to  the  well-known  magnificent 
oration  of  his  advocate.  Sir  James  llackiutosh. 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  199 


scarcely  appears  that  his  heart,  if  he  had  one,  was  really 
touched.  The  sequel  of"  the  story  is,  however,  the  char- 
acteristic portion.  Miss  Charlotte  Ives,  —  this  was  the 
young  lady's  name,  —  when  this  early  illusion  had  worn 
away,  married  Admiral  Sutton  ;  and  in  after  years,  being 
anxious  for  the  promotion  of  her  sons,  bethought  her  of 
applying  to  her  former  admirer,  then  ambassador  from 
France  to  England,  to  use  liis  influence  with  Mr.  Can- 
ning, Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs,  and  about  (as  was 
supposed)  to  proceed  to  India  as  Governor-General. 
This  was  in  1822,  twenty-seven  years  after  the  brief  ro- 
mance we  have  related.  Accordingly  she  called  upon 
him,  and  saw  him  twice.  The  narration  is  his  own :  we 
do  not  accept  it  as  a  true  picture  of  the  deportment  of 
an  English  matron,  but  we  give  it  as  we  find  it.  They 
spoke  at  length  of  past  times  and  old  tender  memories, 
holding  eacli  other's  hands.  The  fatuity  of  the  grandee, 
the  superb  egotist,  the  Jiomme  a  honncs  fortunes,  breaks 
out  at  every  sentence.  He  asks  if  she  had  recognized 
him.  "Elle  a  leve  les  yeux,  qu'elle  tenait  baisses,  et 
pour  toute  reponse,  elle  m'a  adressu  un  regard  souriant  et 
melancolique  comme  un  long  souvenir.  Sa  main  etait 
toujours  entre  les  niiennes."  Then,  after  a  few  more 
questions :  — 

"  '  Mais  dites-moi,  madame,  que  vous  fait  ma  fortune  nou- 
'oelle  ?  Comment  me  voyez-vous  aujourd'hui "?  Co  mot  de 
milord  que  vous  cmployez  me  semble  bien  dur.' 

"  Charlotte  r^pHqua  :  • — • 

''  'Jo  ne  vous  troiive  pas  change,  pas  mhne  vieilli.  Qnand 
je  parlais  de  vous  a  mcs  parents  pendant  votre  absence, 
c'etait  toujours  le  titre  de  milord  que  je  vous  donnais  ;  il  mc 
semblait  que  vous  le  devicz  porter  ;  n^etiez-vous  2)as  pour  moL 
comme  un  tnari,  my  lord  and  master  ?  ' 

"  Cette  gracieuse  fern  me  avait  quelque  chose  de  I'Evc  do 
Milton  en  prononqant  ces  paroles  ;  ellc  n'etait  point  nee  du 
seiu  d'une  autre  femme  ;  sa  beaute  portait  rempreiute  de  la 
main  divine  qui  I'avait  petrie." 

Tliey  had  still  another  interview,  a  parting  one.  Clia- 
teaubriand  says  it  was  painful  on  both  sides.     She  gave 


200  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

liiin  a  packet  of  Lis  old  letters  and  some  mauuscript  of 
his,  observing,  " '  Xe  vous  o(rense«-])as  si  je  ne  veux  rien 
garder  de  ^•ous.'  *  Et  clle  se  prit  a  pleurer."  He  then 
bids  her  adieu,  and  sets  to  woi-k  to  analyze  the  feelings 
■with  Avhich  he  regarded  her  then,  as  compared  Avith  his 
faint  fondness  twenty-seven  years  before,  and  concludes 
in  this  imseemly  fashion  :  "  Si  j'avais  serre  dans  mes 
bras,  epouse  et  mere,  celle  qui  me  fut  destinee  vierge  et 
epouse,  c'eiit  ete  avec  nne  sorte  de  rage,  pour  lietrir,  rem- 
plir  de  douleur,  et  etouffer  ces  vingtsept  annees  livrees  a 
un  autre,  apres  m'avoir  ete  offertes."  We  shall  meet 
Avith  more  than  one  example,  as  we  go  on,  of  the  same 
species  of  profound  indelicacy. 

The  other  incident  of  Chateaubriand's  London  life  to 
which  we  made  reference  was  this.  There  is  an  admira- 
ble and  most  beneficent  institution  in  this  metropolis, 
loiown  to  most  of  our  readers,  called  "  The  Eoyal  Liter- 
ary Fund."  Its  purpose  is  that  of  affording  temporary 
aid  to  literary  men  and  women  who  may  be  in  distress 
or  privation,  but  whose  position  and  education  are  such 
as  would  render  the  receipt  of  open  charity  more  painful 
than  poverty  itself.  The  assistance  needed  is  therefore 
dealt  out  with  all  secrecy  and  delicacy,  and  after  the 
most  careful  inquiry,  by  a  permanent  secretary,  the  chair- 
man, and  one  or  two  members  of  the  society,  who  are 
understood  never  to  reveal  the  names  of  the  recipients. 
In  this  way  much  good  is  done,  much  suffering  relieved, 
and  much  sensibility  soothed  and  spared.  The  mem- 
bers of   this   association  meet  once  a  year  in  force  at 

*  This  remark  of  hers  would  seem  to  he  a  simple  invention,  a  theatri- 
cal or  sentimental  ,/?&  of  the  ambassador's.  It  -would  appear  that  Chateau- 
briand, liaviug  once  got  repossession  of  these  old,  and  ])robably  com- 
pronnsing,  documents  (which  the  ladj"  only  intended  to  show  to  liini^, 
was  far  too  shrewd  to  give  tliem  back  again  ;  for  we  lind  letters  fi-om 
lier  in  the  Souvenirs  de  Madame  Recamier,  more  than  once  entreat- 
ing that  the  packet  slie  had  so  long  cherished  miciht  be  returned  to  her  ; 
and  intimating  also,  not  obscurely,  that  the  interview  we  hare  narrated 
had  not  been  as  agreeable  to  lier  as  her  interlocutor  represents  it.  She 
calls  it  "that  iiic.rjrrcssibh/lnUcv  moment  when  1  stood  in  your  house  an 
uninvited  stranger  "  ;  and  he  evidently,  though  gi\'ing  her  politeness 
enough,  did  nothing  for  her  sou. 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  201 


a  great  banquet,  where  some  one  distinguished  for  rank 
or  fame  is  usually  selected  to  preside..  In  1822,  when 
Chateaubriand  was  ambassador  in  England,  he  was  in- 
vited to  attend  this  annual  dinner,  in  liis  double  capacity 
of  eminent  politician  and  celebrated  writer.  One  of  the 
royal  dukes  was  in  the  chair,  and  the  attendance  was 
unusually  graced  by  the  rank  and  talent  of  the  guests. 
INIany  speeches  were  delivered.  When  it  came  to  Cha- 
teaubriand's turn,  he  passed  a  glowing  eulogy  on  the  in- 
stitution ;  and  by  way  of  illustrating  the  services  which 
it  rendered  in  modesty  and  silence  to  struggling  genius, 
without  distinction  of  sex  or  nation,  he  drew  a  graphic 
picture  of  a  young  foreigner  cast  upon  these  shores,  hav- 
ing nothing  but  his  talents  and  his  industry  to  support 
him  ;  striving,  and  striving  long  in  vain,  to  earn  a  scanty 
subsistence  by  his  pen  ;  and  finally,  when  just  about  to 
give  up  the  conflict  in  despair,  rescued  1iy  the  agent  of 
the  society  descending  upon  his  garret  unsolicited,  like  a 
saving  and  ministering  angel.  AVhen  he  had  heightened 
the  effect  of  his  portrait  by  all  the  colors  his  rich  fancy 
could  gather  round  it,  he  produced  a  most  vivid  and 
thrilling  emotion  in  his  audience  by  adding,  "  This  case 
was  mij  oivn:  I  was  that  unknown  and  destitute  for- 
eigner, five-and-tM-enty  years  ago,  etc.,  etc."  The  effect 
was  electric :  everybody  was  taken  by  surprise  ;  no  one 
had  ever  heard  the  faintest  rumor  of  the  transaction  ;  and 
all  vied  w^ith  one  another  in  congratulating  the  society 
on  having  relieved  so  great  a  man,  and  lauding  the  am- 
bassador for  the  "  grandeur  of  soitl "  which  did  not  shrink 
from  such  an  avowal.  "  Happy,"  exclaimed  jMr.  Everett, 
the  American  minister,  on  the  occasion  of  another  anni- 
A'ersary  celebration,  — "  happy  the  institution  which 
could  give  relief  to  such  a  man !  happy  the  man  mag- 
nanimous enough  to  come  here  afterwards  and  acknowl- 
edge it ! "  or  words  to  that  effect. 

Eemembering  this  touching  scene,  we  opened  the  Me- 
moircs  cVoutrc  Tomhc  with  some  curiosity,  to  read  the  nar- 
ration of  it  there.  Under  the  date  of  1S22,  and  in  a 
portion  of  the  autobiography  vjrittcn  at  that  period,  we 

9* 


202  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

find  a  record  of  this  notable  dinner  given  by  the  Literary 
Fund.  It  is  ni(;ntion('d  by  way  of  introducing  a  some- 
what inilated  compliment  paid  him  on  the  occasion  by 
Mr.  Canning,  and  some  still  more  inflated  reflections  of 
his  own  on  his  juxtaposition  w-ith  so  great  a  man  ;  *  liit 
not  one  word  is  to  he  found  in  reference  to  the  story  ive  have 
just  (jivcn  ;  not  a  hint  of  his  ever  having  received  sucli 
relief,  or  of  having  so  "magnanimously  "  avowed  it.  On 
the  contrary,  he  denies  it  ])y  implication,  observing  that 
"if  the  Literary  Fund  had  existed  when  he  came  to  Lon- 
don in  1793,  it  might  perhaps  at  least  have  paid  his  doc- 
tor's bill."-f-  The  Literary  Fund  elid  exist  at  that  time,  for 
it  was  founded  in  1790.  How  are  we  to  explain  the  ir- 
reconcilable discrepancy  between  the  two  statements  ? 
The  incident  at  the  dinner  could  not  have  escaped  his 
memory ;  for  the  description  of  the  dinner  in  his  me- 
moirs must  have  been  written  within  a  few  days  of  its 
occurrence,  and  he  remembers  perfectly  the  names  and 
the  language  of  his  eonvives.  Was  it  that  he  thought 
the  acknowledgment  of  having  received  at  any  i:)eriod, 
and  under  any  circumstances,  eleemosynary  aid  would 
not  read  well  in  the  biography  of  so  great  a  man  ?  "Was 
he  willing  to  confess  it  vircc  roee,  as  a  mere  Tcrhum  xolans, 
W'hich  might  be  forgotten  to-morrow,  but  'unwilling  to 
embody  it  in  a  work  which  was  to  make  him,  and  to  be 
itself,  immortal  ?  Or  was  it,  in  truth,  that  no  such  relief 
had  ever  been  afforded  him  ;  that  the  idea  of  proclaiming 
it  before  a  brilliant  assembly  liad  tempted  him  into  a 
theatrical  clap-trap  ;  that  he  could  not  resist  the  desire 
to  produce  a  momentary  effect ;  that,  in  fact,  the  whole 
story  was  a  histrionic  lie,  which  he  uttered  on  the  spur 
of  the  occasion,  but  naturally  suppressed  in  the  record 
of  his  life  ?  Neither  explanation  is  creditable  ;  but  the 
last,  we  suspect,  is  the  true  one. 

*  "  Est-ce  I'affinite  de  nos  grandeurs,  ou  le  rapport  de  nos  soufFrances, 
qui  nous  a  rcunis  ici?"  etc.  (Canning  had  then  undergone  no  souf- 
f ranees.) 

t  He  is  careful  also  to  assure  us  (II.  p.  86)  that  he  had  refused  to 
accept  the  jjecuniarj-  assistance  olTered  by  the  English  Government  at 
that  period  to  the  French  emigrants. 


CHATEiVUBEIAND,  203 


We  are  now  arrived  at  the  commencement  of  Chateau- 
briand's literary  life,  which  ranged  from  1800  to  1812, 
and  which  may  be  said  to  have  been  inaugurated  by  the 
Genie  clu  Christianisiiic,  though  the  Essai  sur  les  Revolu- 
tions, which  we  have  already  mentioned,  and  Atala,  of 
which  we  shall  speak  presently,  were  given  to  the  world 
before  his  great  work.  This  work,  however,  was  the  one 
which  made  his  fame  and  fortune  ;  and  it  is  this  to  which 
he  himself  always  refers  as  his  title  both  to  permanent 
glory  and  to  the  gratitude  of  his  country  and  of  Europe. 
It  is  important,  therefore,  if  we  would  estimate  him 
aright,  to  inquire  a  little  into  the  character  of  the  book, 
and  the  circumstances  in  which  it  originated.  Like  near- 
ly all  the  men  of  note  in  France  at  the  close  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  Chateaubriand  was  an  unbeliever, 
not  probably  from  any  very  profound  inquiry  or  reflec- 
tion, but  still  deliberately  and  avowedly.  Many  passages, 
as  well  as  the  whole  tenor,  of  the  Essai  sur  les  Revolu- 
tions, proclaim  this  plainly  enough.  If  any  doubt,  how- 
ever, existed  on  this  head,  it  would  be  set  at  rest  by  a 
remarkable  document  which  Sainte-Beuve  has  brought  to 
light.  There  exists  a  copy  of  the  Essai,  annotated  with 
various  marginal  remarks,  additions,  and  corrections,  pre- 
pared witli  a  view  to  a  second  edition,  which  the  author 
then  hoped  for.  Among  them  we  find  the  following. 
The  original  text  of  the  Essai  says :  "  Dieu,  la  jMatiere, 
la  Fatalite,  ne  font  qu'Un."  Chateaubriand  adds  in  the 
margin,  "  Voila  mon  systeme,  voila  cc  que  jc  crois.  Oui, 
tout  est  hasard,  fatalite  dans  ce  monde ;  la  reputation, 
I'honneur,  la  richesse,  la  vertu  meme  :  et  comment  croire 
qu'un  Dieu  intelligent  nous  conduit  ?  ....  II  y  a  peut- 
etre  un  Dieu,  mais  c'est  le  Dieu  d'Ej)icure  ;  il  est  trop 
grand,  trop  heureux  pour  s'occuper  de  nos  affaires,  et 
nous  sommes  laisses  sur  ce  globe  a  nous  devorer  les  uns 
les  autres."  In  another  passage  he  writes,  also  in  the 
margin,  in  reference  to  another  life  :  "  Quelquefois  je  suis 
tente  de  croire  a  I'immortalite  de  I'ame,  mais  cnsuitc  la 

raison  m  cmimhc  de  r admcttrc Ne  desirous  done  de 

survivre  a  nos  cendres ;  mourons  tout  entiers,  de  peur  de 


204  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 


souffrir  ailleurs."  Again  :  liis  incredulity,  and  his  reason 
for  it,  are  summed  up  in  this  sentence;  the  Essai  says  : 
"  Dicu,  n'pondez-vous,  vous  a  fait  libre.  Ce  n'est  pas  la 
la  (|UL'sti()n.  A-t-il  jircvu  que  jc  tomherais,  que  je  serais 
a  jamais  malheureux  ?  Oui,  indul)ital)lement.  Eli  l)icn  I 
votre  Dieu  n'est  plus  qu'un  tyran  horrible  et  ahsurde." 
The  marginal  note  adds :  "  Cette  objection  est  insoluble, 
et  renverse  de  fond  en  comble  le  systeme  chretien.  Au 
reste,  pcrsonne  n'y  croit  2^lus." 

These  comments  were  written  some  tinie  in  1798.  In 
July  of  that"  year  his  sister  writes  to  him  a  pathetic  let- 
ter announcing  the  death  of  his  mother,  and  her  deep 
grief  for  his  errors  and  impieties,  adding  her  own  prayer 
that  Heaven  would  enlighten  him  and  make  him  cease  to 
Avrite.  By  the  time  the  letter  reached  him,  this  sister 
also  had  ceased  to  breathe.  The  effect  of  this  double  ex- 
hortation on  his  inind  must  be  given  in  his  own  Mords. 
In  his  Memoircs  he  says  : — 

"  The  filial  tenderness  I  felt  for  INIme.  de  Chateaubriand  was 
profound.  The  idea  of  having  poisoned  the  last  days  of  the 
Avoman  who  bore  me  drove  mc  desperate.  I  threw  into  the 
fire  with  horror  the  remaining  copies  of  the  Essai,  as  the  in- 
strument of  my  crime.  I  would  have  annihilated  the  work, 
if  it  liad  been  possible.  I  only  recovered  from  my  grief  when 
the  idea  struck  me  of  expiating  my  first  work  by  a  religious 
one  :  such  was  the  origin  of  the  Genie  du  Christianisme." 

In  the  preface  to  the  first  edition  of  the  work,  he  gives 
a  similar  account :  — 

"  My  mother,  having  been  thrown  into  a  dungeon  at  the 
age  of  seventy-two,  died  on  a  tnickle-bed,  to  which  misery  had 
reduced  her.  The  recollection  of  my  egarements  spread  bit- 
terness over  her  last  hours  ;  and  in  dying  she  commissioned 
one  of  my  sisters  to  recall  me  to  the  rehgion  of  my  youth. 
My  sister  comminiicated  to  me  these  last  wishes  of  my  mother. 
AVhen  her  letter  reached  me,  she  hei'self  was  no  more.  Ces 
deux  voix  sorties  du  tombeau,  cette  mort  qui  servait  d'inter- 
prete  a  la  mort,  ni'ont  frappe.  Je  suis  devenu  Chretien.  Je  n'ai 
point  cede,  j'en  convicns,  a  dc  grandcs  lumiercs  surnaturelles: 
ma  conviction  est  sortie  du  coeur ;  faijyleure  et  j'ai  cru." 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  205 


His  reason  was  not  convinced,  but  his  heart  was  deeply 
touched ;  the  conception  of  the  work  was  like  a  ray  of 
liglit  and  peace  to  him ;  and  its  plan  was  in  strict  con- 
formity with  its  origin.  He  threw  himself  M'ith  feverish 
entluisiasm  into  the  undertaking :  he  read  much,  but  he 
mused  and  meditated  still  more ;  a  title  was  soon  found, 
as  we  learn  from  a  letter  to  Fontanes,  and  a  title  far  more 
appropriate  and  just  than  the  one  he  afterwards  adopted. 
He  writes  :  "  I  misinformed  you  as  to  the  title  of  the 
work:  it  is  to  be  called  Dc.s  Beautes poetiqucs  et  morales 
de  la  Bclirjion  Chretienne,  ct  dc  sa  Sujjeriorite  sur  tous  les 
autres  Citltcs  dc  la  tcrrc."  This  gives  a  A'ery  precise  idea 
of  the  nature  and  object  of  the  book.  It  is  not  a  didactic 
or  a  controversial  work.  There  is  no  logic  and  no  se- 
quence in  it.  It  is  a  poetic  rhapsody,  of  rare  finish  and 
elaboration  of  sentiment  and  fancy.  It  is  Christianity, 
or  rather  the  Catholic  form  of  it,  made  graceful  with  every 
drapery,  gorgeous  with  every  coloring,  attractive  with 
every  association,  which  vivid  imagination  and  a  rich  and 
glowing  eloquence  could  gather  round  it.  Or,  rather,  it 
is  a  collection  of  beautiful  and  pathetic  images  and  pict- 
ures drawn  from  all  walks  of  thouglit  and  feeling,  pressed 
into  tlie  service  of  religion,  and  bound  together  with  a 
golden  tln-ead  of  faith.  It  contains  much  to  please  and 
elevate  the  pious,  much  to  confirm  the  gratitude  of  the 
happy,  much  to  soothe  the  sufferings  of  the  wretched  and 
the  bereaved,  much  even  to  stijnulate  the  enthusiasm  of 
endurance  and  of  sacrifice  ;  but  not  an  argument  or  a 
consideration  to  convince  or  touch  the  unbeliever.  In- 
deed, we  gather  as  mucli  from  the  author's  own  confession 
and   analysis.*     He  picked  up   many   suggestions   and 

*  *'  It  was  a  mistake  "  (he  tells  its  in  the  Introduction)  "  to  endeavor  to 
reply  seriously  to  sophists  (meaning  rcnsoning  iinbelievers),  — a  race  of 
men  whom  it  is  impossible  to  convince,  because  they  are  always  wrong. 
From  neglecting  this  consideration  much  time  and  labor  have  been  lost. 
It  was  not  the  sophists  that  neeiled  to  be  reconciled  t6  religion  ;  it  was 
the  world  they  had  led  astray.  They  had  seduced  it  by  assurances  that 
Christianity  was  a  worship  .sprung  out  of  barbarism,  absurd  in  its  dog- 
mas, ridiculous  in  its  ceremonies,  inimical  to  arts  and  letters,  to  reason 
and  to  beaut}',  —  a  M-orshij)  wliich  had  done  nothing  but  shed  blood, 
enthrall  the  world,  and  delay  the  happiness  and  enlightenment  of  the 


20G  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

much  of  the  relifjious  coloring  of  the  work  from  a  super- 
ficial perusal  of  tlie  Fathers.  The  descriptions  of  Nature, 
he  tells  us,  he  extracted  from  The  Natchez  (a  tale  of 
savage  life,  which  had  occupied  him  for  some  years,  and 
which  was  afterwards  retouched  and  published)  ;  and  his 
own  idea  of  the  character  of  the  hook  may  he  learned 
from  tlio  significant  fact  tliat,  in  its  original  form,  it  em- 
hodied  liis  two  celebrated  romances,  Aialu  and  Iicn4, — 
romances  which,  with  all  their  beauties,  are  assuredly  not 
religious  in  their  essence :  what  of  Cliristianity  appears 
in  them  is  the  thinnest  varnish  in  the  one  case,  and  a 
mere  brilliant  patch  embroidered  on  the  otlier.  AVe  con- 
fess oiu'selves  quite  unable  to  share  the  admiration  ex- 
pressed for  the  Genie  du  Christ ianismc,  not  only  Ijy  French- 
men generally,  but  even  by  such  competent  critics  as 
Yillemain  and  Sainte-Beuve.  No  doubt  it  is  full  of  poetic 
beauties,  warmth  of  fancy,  richness  of  coloring,  and  charm 
of  style,  though  disfigured  liy  frequent  inflation  and  some 
deplorable  specimens  of  puerility  and  false  taste  ;  • —  but 
it  has  none  of  the  ring  of  true  metal  about  it,  to  our  ears  ; 
it  reads  throughout  like  the  work,  not  of  a  believer,  but 
of  a  man  who  wished  to  believe,  who  sought  to  find  peace 
and  joy  —  bvit,  yet  more,  fame  and  literary  success  — in 
believing.*     It  strikes  us  as  the  production  (to  quote  the 

human  race.  It  behooved  us,  therefore,  to  show  that  of  all  religions  that 
ever  existed,  Christianity  is  the  most  poetic,  the  most  humane,  the  most 
favorable  to  liberty,  literature,  and  art ;  and  that  the  modern  world, 
owes  it  everythin<i,  from  agiiculture  u])  to  abstract  science,  —  from  hos- 
pitals for  the  miserable  up  to  temples  built  by  Michael  Angelo  and 
adorned  by  Raphael.  It  was  necessary  to  prove  that  nothing  can  be 
diviner  than  its  moralitj%  nothing  more  lovely  or  more  imposing  than  its 
dogmas,  its  doctiine,  and  its  worship  ;  that  it  favors  genius,  purifies 
taste,  develops  virtuous  passion,  gives  vigor  to  the  thoughts,  noble  style 
to  the  writer,  perfect  models  to  the  artist  ;  that  there  is  no  shame  in 
believing  in  company  Avith  Newton,  Bossuet,  Pascal,  and  Racine  ;  and 
finally,  that  we  must  summon  all  the  fascinations  of  imagination  and 
all  the  interests  of  the  heart  to  the  aid  of  that  faith  against  which  they 
had  been  armed.      This  w  (he  irork  I  undertook."  ■ — (Vol.  I.  p.  IG.) 

*  Some  notion  of  the  general  character  of  the  book  may  be  given  by 
looking  over  the  titles  of  the  chapters  :  Qu'il  n"v  a  point  de  morale  s'il 
n'y  a  pas  d'autre  vie.  Elysee  antique.  Jugement  dernier.  Bonheur 
des  justes.  Pourquoi  les  Fran9ais  n'ont  que  des  memoires.  Division 
des  harmonies.     Des  ruines  en  generale.     Effet  pittoresque  des  ruines. 


CHATEAU  BRIAN  D.  207 


expression  of  a  French  critic)  "  d'lme  imagination  qui 
s'exalte,  d'une  tete  qui  se  nionte,  non  pas  d'un  cosur  qui 
croit "  ;  —  and  several  incidental  remarks  by  Chateau- 
briand himself  appear  to  justify  this  somewliat  hai'sh  de- 
scription. He  conl'esses  to  the  alternations  of  doubt  and 
faith  which  disturbed  him  even  during  the  composition- 
of  the  work.*  When  he  speaks  of  the  Genie  clu  Chris- 
tianisme  in  his  Memoirs,  and  of  the  immense  sensation  it 
excited,  it  is  never  with  the  deep  and  modest  gratitude 
of  the  pious  Christian,  sincerely  thankful  that  he  has 
been  permitted  and  enabled  to  do  service  to  his  Master,  nor 
even  with  the  simple  joy  of  the  soldier  who  is  delighted 
to  have  gained  a  victory  for  the  good  cause  ; "f* • — -it  is 
always  with  the  self-glorification  of  the  litterateur  who 
has  made  a  grand  hit  and  achieved  an  unparalleled  suc- 
cess. Not  one  emotion  of  simple  disinterested  piety  can 
be  discovered  anywhere.     "  La  litterature  "  (he  says)  "  se 

teignit  des  couleurs  de  mes  tableaux  religieux Lo 

heurt  que  le  Genie  du  Christianisme  donna  aux  esprits  fit 
sortir  le  xviii™®  siecle  de  I'orniere,  et  le  jeta  pour  jamais 

Euines  -des  monumens  chretiens.  Des  cloches.  Pompes  funeljres  des 
grands.  Tombeaux  antiques.  Tombeaux  modernes.  Tombeaux  clire- 
liens.  Cimetieres  de  Campagne.  Tombeaux  dans  les  Eglises.  Saint- 
Denis.  Ejioux  :  Adam  et  Eve  ;  Penelope  et  Ulj-sse.  Le  Pere  :  Priam. 
Amour  passionne  :  Didon.  Amour  champetre  :  Le  Cyclope  et 
Galatee,  etc. 

*  "  Quand  les  semences  de  la  religion  germerent  la  premiere  fois  dans 
mon  ame,  je  m'epanouissais  comme  une  terre  vierge  qui,  delivree  de  ces 
ronces,  porte  sa  premiere  moisson.  Survint  une  bise  aride  et  glacee,  et 
la  terre  se  desseeha.  Le  Ciel  en  eut  pitie,  il  lui  rondit  ses  tiedes  rosees  ; 
jniis  la  bise  soufTIa  de  nouveau.  Cette  alternative  de  doute  et  de  foi  a 
fait  longtemps  de  ma  vie  uu  melange  de  desespoir  et  d'inefl'ables  deliees." 
t  In  looking  again  over  his  Mimoircs  we  liave  found  one  passage 
which  may  be,  considered  an  exception  :  we  give  it  'quantum  valeat. 
It  was  written  at  the  close  of  life.  "  On  the  supposition  that  my  name 
will  leave  some  trace  behind  it,  I  shall  owe  it  to  the  Genie  du  Chris- 
tianisme. Without  deceiving  myself  as  to  the  intrinsic  A-alue  of  the  book, 
I  recognize  its  accidental  worth  :  it  came  at  the  light  moment.  On  this 
account  it  gave  me  a  place  in  one  of  those  historical  epochs,  which, 
mingling  tlie  man  witli  the  events,  oblige  people  to  rememlser  him.  If 
its  influence  be  not  limited  to  tlie  change  which  during  forty  years  it  has 
produced  on  living  generations  ;  if  in  those  who  come  after  us  it  should 
revive  one  spark  of  those  truths  which  have  civilized  the  earth  ;  if  the 
faint  symptom  of  life  now  visil^le  should  be  preserved  through  future 
years, — I  shall  die  full  of  hope  in  the  Divine  mercy."     (Vol.  II.  p.  221.) 


208  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

hors  de  sa  voie :  on  recommeriQa,  oit  plutdt  on  commcn^a, 

11  (itudicr  les  sources  dii  Cliristianisme C'est  moi 

qui  ai  rappelc  le  jeune  sieclc  a  I'admiration  des  vieux 
teiu})lcs."  In  ]iis  account  of  the  Congress  of  Yeroua, 
Avritten  in  comparatively  his  old  age,  we  find  this  remark  : 
"  II  nous  etait  impossible  de  mettre  aussi  entierement  de 
c6t(^  ce  que  nous  pouvions  valoir ;  d'oublier  tout-^i-fait 
que  nous  dtions  le  restaurateur  de  la  religion,  et  I'auteur 
du  Gfnie  du  Christianismc."  And  when,  on  the  pul.dica- 
tion  of  Les  Martyrs  some  years  later,  certain  complaints 
were  made  in  relation  to  the  fancied  heterodoxy  of  por- 
tions of  it,  Chateaubriand,  with  an  indignation  which 
tastes  so  much  of  the  person  and  so  little  of  the  cause, 
exclaims :  "  Et  ne  voila-t-il  pas  que  les  Chretiens  de 
France,  a  qui  j'avais  rendu  de  si  grands  services  en  relevant 
leurs  autcls,  s'aviserent  betement  de  sc  scandaliser." 

Notwithstanding  his  tendency  to  self-laudation,  how- 
ever, Chateaubriand  does  not  at  all  exaggerate  the  actual 
success  of  the  work.  It  placed  him  at  once  on  the  pin- 
nacle of  fame.  The  truth  was,  that  it  appeared  in  the 
very  nick  of  time.  It  was  published  at  a  moment  of  re- 
action. It  caught  the  world  on  the  rebound.*  It  de- 
lighted the  most  opposed  classes,  and  aided  the  most 
diverse  interests.  It  was  published  just  as  the  Con- 
cordat was  proclaimed,  and  the  churches  Avere  about  to 
be  reopened.  Napoleon,  who  half  dreaded  the  effect  of 
his  convention  with  the  Pope,  and  his  coquetting  with 
the  clergy  on  the  allegiance  of  an  unbelieving  and  mock- 
ing generation,  was  charmed  at  the  advent  of  so  un- 
expected and  efficient  an  ally.  The  poor,  the  suffering, 
and  the  timid,  who  had  been  so  long  deprived  of  the 
consolations  of  religion,  were  beyond  measure  rejoiced  to 
hear  the  old  language  once  again.  The  noble  families  of 
the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain* —  to  whom  their  religion 
was,  like  their  loyalty,  a  sort  of  family  inheritance,  a  por- 

*  M.  Villeniain  well  doscvibes  the  work  :  "  Cc  fut  la  j^nsec  du  jilus 
grand  nombrc  traduite  par  iin  lionime  de  genie  ;  ce  fut  iin  lieu-coinmun 
populaire  embelli  par  \ine  eloquence  originale."  Vinet  very  i'elicitously 
styles  him  "  the  Poet-Laureate  of  Christianity." 


CHATEAUBRIAXD.  209 


tion  of  their  family  pride,  a  thing  that  "  ]:)eloiiged  to 
good  society,"  and  was  more  than  ever  cherished  since 
infidelity  and  scepticism  had  been  dishonored  by  the 
embraces  of  a  democYatic  canaille — recognized  the  aristo- 
cratic opinions,  the  to7i  comme  it  faut,  and  v/elcomed 
tlieir  fellow-noble  with  enthusiasm.  Every  one  ]iressed 
round  him  to  do  him  homage ;  and  incense  of  all  sorts 
was  burnt  before  him  till  even  he  was  almost  satiated.* 

This,  however,  Avas  not  his  first  literary  success.  A 
3-ear  previously,  his  faithful  and  sagacious  friend,  M.  de 
Tontanes,  had  induced  him  to  extract  the  episodical  ro- 
mance of  Atala,  and  to  give  it  separately  to  the  world. 
The  result  amply  justified  the  anticipations  of  the  critic. 
To  use  an  expression  of  Lord  Byron,  M.  de  Chateau- 
briand "awoke  next  morning,  and  found  himself  famous." 
The  volume  can  be  read  from  beginning  to  end  in  a 
couple  of  hours,  so  that  a  single  day  was  sufficient  to 
decide  its  fate.  It  was  profusely  advertised,  and  became 
instantaneously  famous.  It  was  not,  indeed,  by  any 
means  universally  admired,  but  it  was  universally  read. 
There  were  many  different  opinions,  but  no  silence  on 
the  question.  Chateaubriand  in  his  Memoires  has  left  us 
a  very  graphic  and  amusing  account  of  its  reception,  and 
of  the  effect  of  that  reception  on  himself.  It  was  hailed 
with  enthusiasm  by  the  young  and  by  the  fair  sex,  but 
severely  handled  by  grave  Academicians.  It  was  wor- 
shipped by  the  romanticists,  but  scouted  by  the  classi- 
cists. Girls  wept  over  it  in  the  boudoir ;  dramatists 
ridiculed  it  on  the  stage.  Parodies,  caricatures,  sign- 
boards, all  lielped  to  fill  the  public  mind  with  Atala, 
Chactas,  and  the  Pere  Aubry.  "  I  saw  "  (says  Chateau- 
briand) "  on  a  little  theatre  of  the  Boulevards,  my  lady 

*  His  Memoires  contain  one  very  nccive  expression,  extraordinarily 
characteristic  oF  the  false  taste  and  inflation  of  sentiment  which  con- 
stantly interferes  to  spoil  even  his  most  natural  moods.  He  tells  us  he 
was  anxious  that  his  hook  should  make  "  a  great  noise  "  in  the  world,  in 
order  that  his  mother  (who  was  in  heaven)  might  hear  it  !  "  Ce  desir 
me  venait  de  la  tendresse  liliale  :  jc  voulais  un  grand  bruit,  qfin  qu'il 
montut  jusqiiau  sejour  de  ma  mire,  et  que  les  anges  lui  portassent  ma 
sainte  expiation." 


210  LITERARY   AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

savage  witli  a  liead-dress  of  cock's  featliers,  talking  to  a 
wild  man  of  her  tribe  about  '  the  soul  of  solitude,'  in  a 
style  that  made  me  perspire  Avith  sliame.  Young  lovers 
at  the  Varit'tes  were  made  to  talk  of  alligators,  swans, 
primeval  forests,  while  their  parents  stood  by  fancying 
they  had  gone  crazy.  Tlie  Abb6  Morellet,  to  cover  me 
with  confusion,  got  his  maid-servant  to  sit  npon  his 
knee,  in  order  to  show  that  he  could  not  in  that  ])Osition 
hold  her  feet  in  his  hands,  as  I  had  descril)ed  Cliactas 
holding  those  of  Atala  during  the  storm.  Eut  all  this 
only  served  to  augment  the  excitement."  His  head,  he 
confesses,  was  turned.  He  was  intoxicated  with  success. 
"  Je  me  derobais  a  mon  (iclat ;  je  me  promenais  a  I'ecart, 
cherchant  a  eteindre  I'aureole  dont  ma  tetc  etait 
couronnee.  .  .  .  Quand  ma  superiorite  dinait  h,  treute 
sous  au  pays  Latin,  elle  avalait  de  travers,  genee  par  les 
regards  dont  elle  se  croyait  I'objet.  Je  me  contemplais, 
je  me  disais :  C'est  ponrtant  toi,  creature  extraordinaire, 
qui  mange  comme  im  autre  homme."  Altogether  this 
chapter  is  one  of  the  most  natural  and  pleasing  in  his 
Memoir  cs. 

As  Atala,  though  so  short,  is  perhaps  at  once  the  best, 
the  most  complete,  and  the  most  characteristic  of  Cha- 
teaubriand's works,  it  is  worth  while  to  spend  a  few 
minutes  in  considering  its  peculiarities.  It  exemplifies 
nearly  all  his  special  merits  and  his  special  faults.  The 
language  is  exquisitely  choice  and  musical ;  the  descrip- 
tions of  nature  are  in  the  best  style  of  gorgeous  and 
artificial  poetry  ;  the  sentiments,  though  not  always  sim- 
ple or  appropriate,  are  often  touching  and  beautiful,  and 
sometimes  elevated.  On  the  whole,  though  full  of  charms 
it  is  very  young  and  very  French,  —  we.  know  not  how 
else  to  describe  it.  The  story  is  a  sort  'of  reproduction  of 
Paul  and  Virginia  :  with  the  difference,  that  the  lovers 
of  Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre  were  colonists,  and  those  of 
Chateaubriand  are  North  American  Indians.  In  simpli- 
city, in  pathos,  in  fidelity  of  coloring  and  costume,  in 
correctness  of  taste,  in  everything  except  rich  word-paint- 
ing, the  earlier  romance  has,  in  our  judgment,  the  advan- 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  211 


tage.  In  purity  of  conception  and  delicacy  of  treatment, 
St.  Pierre,  though  somewhat  morbid,  is  unquestionably 
far  superior.  The  girls  in  both  stories  are  correct  in  con- 
duct; but  the  one  is  modest,  Avhile  the  other  is  only 
chaste.  Atala  is  a  young  maiden  of  the  tribe  of  Natchez, 
but  of  European  origin  by  the  father's  side ;  Chactas  is  a 
young  savage  of  anotlier  clan,  whom  she  liberates. on  the 
eve  of  the  day  when  he  was  about  to  be  burnt  alive,  after 
the  usual  mode  in  "which  Indians  treat  tlieir  captives. 
The  two  young  people  fly  together  and  wander  for  Aveeks 
in  the  forests  and  prairies,  till  they  reach  a  missionary 
settlement.  Atala  returns  the  love  of  Chactas  with  an 
ardor  yet  greater  than  his  own ;  but  her  mother  having 
vowed  her  to  celibacy  in  her  cradle,  she  dares  not  yield  to 
their  mutual  passion,  and  when  on  the  point  of  failing 
takes  poison  to  save  herself  from  l)reaking  this  vow\  She 
confesses  on  her  death-bed  to  Father  Aubry,  a  venerable 
priest,  and  dies  in  the  midst  of  his  exhortations  and  con- 
solations. Chactas  relates  the  story  in  his  old  age  to 
Eene,  —  alias  Chateauliriand. 

Such  is  the  outline  of  the  tale.  But  the  tale  is  nothing, 
the  painting  is  everything.  That  painting,  while  full  of 
detached  beauties,  is  also  full  of  incongruities  when 
looked  at  as  a  whole.  We  would  willingly,  as  the  autlior 
somewhere  in  his  works  advises,  "  abandon  the  small  and 
easy  criticism  of  faults  for  the  larger  and  more  difficult 
criticism  of  beauties  "  ;  but  in  the  instance  of  Atala  this 
is  impossible,  and  would  be  unjust;  for  the  beauties  are 
beauties  of  detail,  and  the  faults  lie  in  the  ensemble  of  the 
picture.  The  language,  half  simple,  half  imaginative,  of 
savage  life,  is  put  on  laboriously  in  patches ;  the  senti- 
ments, and  often  th.e  expressions,  are  redolent  of  the  most 
advanced,  and  even  morbid,  civilization ;  and  the  jar 
consequent  upon  the  mixture  is  felt  in  every  page.  Thus 
Atala  says  of  lier  mother's  deatli :  "  Le  chagrin  d'amour 
vint  la  chercher,  et  elle  descendit  dans  la  petite  cave 
garnie  de  peaux  d'oii  Ton  ne  sort  jamais "  ;  but  when 
describing  her  passion  for  Chactas,  she  uses  this  Eous- 
seau-ish  and  Chateaubriand-ish  language  :  "  Sentant  une 


212  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

divinity  qui  m'arivtait  dans  mos  horrililes  transports, 
j'aurais  desire  que  cette  divinitu  se  lut  ancantie,  pourvu 
que,  scrree  dans  tes  bras,  fcitsse  rovM  cVahime  en  ahvme 
avcc  Ics  debris  dc  Bleu  et  dit  monde."  Conceive  such  words 
or  such  thoughts  in  a  young  maid  of  the  American  forests  ! 
Then  Chactas  is  always  admiring  and  adoring  "  Nature  "  : 
the  genuine  child  of  nature  never  talks  about  nature  at 
all.  Cliactas  in  one  page  describes  simply  enougli,  and  as 
a  savage  might,  the  lovely  hair  and  eyes  of  his  wood 
nymph ;  but  then  goes  on  with  this  Parisian  twang :  "  On 
remarquait  sur  son  visage  je  ne  sais  quoi  de  vertueux  et 
de  passionnee,  dont  I'attrait  etait  irresistible  ;  elle  joignait 
a  cela  des  graces  plus  tendres,  et  une  extreme  sensibility, 
iinie  a  une  melancolie  profonde,  respirait  dans  ses  regards." 
The  gem  of  the  book  is,  we  think,  the  discourse  of  the 
good  old  priest,  when  he  is  laboring  to  reconcile  Atala 
to  dying  so  young  and  so  full  of  life  and  love,  liy  depict- 
ing the  miseries  and  disenchantments  that  so  commonly 
are  inseparable  from  continued  years  ;  but  though  mag- 
nificent as  a  rhapsody  on  the  "  vanity  of  human  wishes," 
its  whole  tone  and  tenor  seem  out  of  place  in  a  cave  in  a 
primeval  forest,  and  addressed  to  a  simple  savage  maiden. 
He  assures  her  that  she  loses  little  in  losing  life ;  that 
cabins  and  palaces  are  alike  wretched ;  that  everything 
suffers  and  everything  groans  here  below ;  and  then  adds 
this  monstrous  piece  of  bad  taste,  which  all  the  entreaties 
of  his  friends  could  not  persuade  Chateaubriand  to  ex- 
punge :  "  Les  reines  ont  dte  vues  pleurant  commcs  dcs 
simples  femrnes ;  et  Ton  s'est  etonne  dc  la  quantite  de 
larmcs  que  contiennent  les  yeux  des  rois." 

We  must  quote  a  few  more  passages  of  this  really 
beautiful  discourse,  in  justice  both  to  our  criticisms  and 
to  the  author  we  are  obliged  to  treat  so  unceremoniously. 

"  Est-ce   votre   amour  que   vous   regrettezl     Ma   fille,   il 

fiiudi-ait  autaut  pleurer  im  songe Atala,  les  sacritices, 

les  bienfaits  ne  sout  pas  des  liens  6tcrnels  :  un  jour,  peut-etrc, 
le  degout  filt  venu  avec  la  satiete,  le  passe  eat  ete  conipte 
pour  rien,  et  Ton  n'eut  plus  apercju  que  les  inconveniens  d'une 
tniion  pauvre  et  meprisee.  .  .  .  .  Je  vous  epargne  les  details 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  2 1 3 


des  soucis  du  menage,  les  disputes,  les  reproches  mutuels,  les 
inquietudes,  et  toutes  ces    peines  secretes  qui    veiilent    sur 

I'oreiller  du  lit  conjugal Mais  peut-etre  direz-vous  que 

ces  derniers  exemples  ne  vous  regardeut  pas ;  que  toute  votre 
ambition  se  reduisait  a  vivre  dans  tme  obscure  ca]bane  avec 
rhomme  de  votre  chois ;  que  vous  cherchiez  moins  des 
douceurs  du  mariage  que  les  charmes  de  cette  folie  que  la 
jeunesse  appelle  amour  1  Illusion,  chimere,  vanite,  rove  d'une 
imagination  blessee  !  ....  Si  Thomrae  pouvait  etre  constant 
dans  ses  affections,  sans  doute  la  solitude  et  Tamour 
I'egalerait  a  Dieu^meme  ;  car  ce  sont  la  des  deux  eternels 
plaisirs  du  gi'and  Etre.  Mais  I'ame  de  I'homme  se  fatigue,  et 
jamais  elle  n'aime  longtemps  le  meme  objet  avec  plenitude. 
II  y  a  toujours  qudques  points  par  oa  deux  coeurs  ne  se  toucheat 
j)as ;  et  ces  jwints  suifisent  a  la  longue  p)our  rendre  la  vie  in- 
siipportahle. 

"  Eufin,  ma  chere  fille,  le  grand  tort  des  hommes,  dans 
leurs  songes   de   bonheur,  est   d'oublier  cette  infirmite   de  la 

mort   attach^e  k  leur  nature  :    il  faut  finir L'amour 

n'etend  point  son  empire  sur  les  vers  du  cercueil.  Que  disje 
(6  vanity  des  vanites !),  que  parlais-je  de  la  puissance  des 
amities  de  la  terre  1  Voulez-vous  en  connaitre  I'etendue  ]  Si 
un  homme  revenait  a  la  lumiere,  quelques  ann^es  apres  sa 
mort,  je  doute  qu'il  fat  revu  avec  joie  par  ceux-la  meme  qui 
ont  donne  le  plus  de  larmes  a  sa  memoire  :  tant  on  forme  vite 
d'autres  liaisons,  tant  on  prend  facilement  d'autres  affections, 
tant  I'inconstance  est  natui'elle  a  Thomme,  tant  notre  vie  est 
peu  de  chose  meme  dans  le  coeur  de  uos  amis." 

The  whole  fitting  criticism  of  Atala  may  be  summed 
\\\)  in  a  few  sentences  of  M.  Vinet.  "  This  hybrid  inco- 
herent character  shows  itself  throughout,  but  most  espe- 
cially in  the  coloring  of  the  style,  or  ratlier  in  tlie 
promiscuous  intermixture  of  colors,  which  mingle  without 
blending.  The  East  and  tlie  West,  the  present  and  tlio 
past,  the  naivete  of  the  savage  and  tlie  morbid  subtlety 
of  the  civilized  Parisian,  are  cast  pell-mell  into  the  itn- 
ages  and  expressions  of  the  dramatis  ijcrsoncc.  All  tliis 
is  unnatural  and  false  ;  and  yet,  we  must  admit,  it  is 
supportable  enough.  Everything  is  not  well  assorted ; 
but  everything  is  brilliant,  melodious,  and  sweet.     There 


214  LITERARY  AND  SOC'UL  JUDGMENTS. 

is  such  freshness  and  splendor  in  the  inharmonious 
colors,  such  music  in  the  ricli  and  gorgeous  language. 
As  a  magnificent  painter  of  the  magnificence  of  nature, 
M.  de  Cliateaubriand  has  no  equal,  and  scarcely  a  com- 
petitor." * 

We  have  dwelt  so  long  on  these  two  most  celebrated 
and  most  characteristic  works  of  Chateaubriand,  that  we 
have  no  space  for  any  details  as  to  the  remainder  of  his 
literary  career.  Rene  —  which  originally  and  naturally 
formed  an  episode  in  his  youthful  romance  o^  Lcs  Natchez, 
and  was  forcibly  transported  thence  into  the  Genie  du 
Christianumc,  where  it  first  appeared  —  is  a  vivid  but 
most  painful  delineation  of  a  soul  made  wretched  by 
vague  yearnings  and  selfish  discontent,  unprincipled  in- 
dolence, and  unloving  egotism  ;  in  fact,  a  faithful  picture 
of  Chateaubriand's  own  youth.  It  has  in  it  nothing 
noble,  nothing  manly,  nothing  vigorous  or  fresh ;  but  a 
sadder  cry,  a  deeper  groan,  never  issued  from  the  hope- 
less abysses  of  an  aimless  and  melancholy  spirit.  It  is 
morbid  to  the  very  core :  it  is  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able specimens  of  that  "  Literature  of  Despair  "  peculiar 
to  our  age,  of  which  Wcrther,  Obermann,  and  Adol])1ic  are 
analogous  productions. 

It  was  in  the  year  1806  that  ^NI.  de  Chateaubriand  con- 
ceived the  plan  of  liis  great  prose-poem, Zcs  Martyrs.  He 
saw  in  the  sto.y  of  the  early  Christian  sufferers  for  their 
faith,  as  he  had  before  seen  in  Christianity  itself,  a  grand 
field  for  poetry  and  romance,  for  descriptions  of  the 
beauties  of  nature,  and  the  charms  of  elevated  sentiment 
and  ]iassion.  To  imbue  his  mind  with  the  needful  locai 
coloring,  he  planned  that  voyage  to  the  East  of  which  he 
afterwards  published  so  pleasing  an  account  in  the  Iti- 
nerairc  de  Paris  a  Jerusalem.  He  would  fain  persuade 
us  in  his  autobiography  that  he  went  thither  in  the  spirit 
of  piety,  to  weep  at  the  foot  of  Calvary,  and  to  bathe  in 
the  waters  of  tlie  Jordan  ;  but,  in  the  preface  to  the 
Itinera  ire,  one  of  his  real  motives  is  avowed:  "  J'allais 

*  Etudes  sur  la  Litterature  Francaise  au  xix""  siecle,  Tom.  I.  p.  273. 


CHATEAUBPJAND.  215 


cliercher  des  images  :  voila  tout."  The  other  motive,  per- 
haps the  most  powerful  one,  is  obscurely  hinted  at  in 
a  later  portion  of  his  Memories  cVoutcr  Toriibc  (Venice, 
1333),  but  was  well  known  to  his  i'riends.  He  went  in 
obedience  to  the  exigencies  of  a  charming  person  to  whom 
he  was  then  much  attached,  who  sent  him  to  gather  that 
fresh  glory  which  was  needed  thoroughly  to  win  her 
heart,  and  promised  to  meet  him  at  the  Alhambra  on  his 
return.  Of  that  meeting  we  have  a  romantic  shadowing 
out  in  Le  Dernier  Ahencerage,  an  exquisite  little  tale  of 
jMoorish  chivalry.  The  passage  in  his  Memoires  is  as 
follows :  "  Have  I  told  all  the  truth  in  my  Itin^raire  as 
to  this  journey  ?  Did  I  really  make  a  pilgrimage  to  the 
tomb  of  Christ  in  a  spirit  of  repentance  ?  One  sole  tJiouglit 
2}0ssesscd  me :  I  counted  with  impatience  the  moments  till 
its  realization.  On  the  deck  of  my  ship,  with  eyes  fixed 
on  the  western  star,  I  demanded  of  it  wings  to  speed  me 
on  my  course,  de la gloire  jjotir  me  f aire  aimer.  I  hoped 
to  find  this  at  Sparta,  at  Sion,  at  Memphis,  at  Carthage, 
and  to  bring  it  back  to  the  Alhambra.  How  my  heart 
beat  as  I  approached  the  coast  of  Spain  !  Aurait-on  garde 
mon  souvenir  ainsi  (\\xQ,f  avals  traverse  mcs  epreuves  ? " 

Les  Martyrs  appeared  in  1809,  but  had  far  less  success 
than  the  autlior  anticipated,  though  more,  in  our  opinion, 
than  it  deserved.  It  is  a  poem  in  every  sense,  but  writ- 
ten in  prose,  —  a  mistake  which  causes  all  its  extrava- 
gances and  anomalies  to  stand  out  in  disagreeable  relief. 
Only  verse,  and  verse  of  the  highest  order,  could  make 
such  descriptions  and  rhapsodies  harmonious.  The  work, 
like  all  Chateaubriand's,  is  replete  with  detached  beauties, 
but  every  beauty  is  set  in  a  framework  of  anachronisms 
and  incongruities  whicli  overpower  its  fascinations.  The 
whole  conception  of  the  work,  too,  is  false  in  its  founda- 
tion :  the  design  was  to  contrast  the  two  religions,  Chris- 
tianity and  Paganism,  —  the  fresh  infancy  of  the  one 
beside  the  sunset  death-bed  of  the  other.  But  in  exe- 
cuting this  conception  the  author  has  fallen  into  the 
most  fatal  and  unpardonable  of  all  anachronisms,  —  one 
of  twenty  centuries  at  least :  he  has  contrasted,  not  the 


21G  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

Christianity  of  Cyprian's  with  the  polytheism  of  Dio- 
cletian's day,  but  the  Catholicism  of-  Bossuet  -with  the 
mylholo.ijy  of  Homer.  He  has  fallen,  too,  into  an  error 
wiiich,  if  not  so  scientifically  heinous,  is  yet  more  prac- 
tically revoltin.i,^  He  has  given  us  descriptions  of  heaven 
and  its  mysteries  Avhich,  though  modelled  after  the 
Apocalypse  and  the  Faradisc  Lost,  read  like  parodies  on 
both.  He  follows,  with  mincing  and  unequal  step,  the 
most  questionable  flights  of  Dante  and  of  Milton,  sham- 
ing and  caricaturing  them  as  he  goes  along.  The  follow- 
ing —  one  of  the  most  carefully  wrought  passages  in 
the  book  —  will  suffice  to  justify  our  criticism :  — 

"  Delicious  gardens  extend  round  the  radiant  Jerusalem. 
A  river  flows  from  the  throne  of  the  Almighty  :  it  waters  the 
celestial  Eden,  and  bears  on  its  waves  the  pure  Love  and  the 
Wisdom  of  God.  The  mysterious  stream  separates  into  dif- 
ferent channels  which  mingle  and  reunite  again,  and  nourish 
the  immortal  vines,  the  bride-like  lilies,  and  the  flowers  which 
perfume  the  couch  of  the  bridegroom.  The  tree  of  life  rises 
on  the  Hill  of  Incense  ;  a  little  fiu'ther  the  Tree  of  Knowledge 
spreads  on  every  side  its  deep  roots  and  its  innumerable 
branches  ;  hiding  amid  its  golden  foliage  the  secrets  of  the 
Divinity,  the  occult  laws  of  nature,  moral  and  intellectual 
realities,  and  the  changeless  principles  of  good  and  evil. 
....  Of  the  angels,  some  keep  the  20,000  war-chariots  of 
Sabaoth  and  Elohim  ;  others  watch  over  the  quiver  of  the 
Lord,  his  inevitable  thunderbolts,  and  his  terrible  cours- 
ers, which  carry  war,   pestilence,   faamine,  and   death 

There  is  accomplished,  far  from  the  gaze  of  angels,  the  Mystery 
of  the  Trinit}".  The  Spirit,  ever  ascending  and  descending 
between  the  Fatlier  and  the  Son,  mingles  with  them  in  those 
impenetrable  depths.  The  primitive  Essences  divide  ;  the 
triangle  of  fire  vanishes  away  ;  the  oracle  opens,  and  tlie  Three 
Powers  become  visible.  Seated  on  a  throne  of  clouds,  the 
Father  holds  a  compass  in  his  hand  ;  a  circle  is  beneath  his 
feet ;  the  Son,  armed  with  a  thunderbolt,  is  at  his  right  liand  ; 
the  Spirit  I'ises  at  his  left  hand  like  a  pillar  of  light." 

With  such  pictures  —  "poor  fragments  all  of  this  low 
earth  "  —  could  Cliateaubriand  dream  of  rousing  the  pious 
imagination  of  Paris  in  the  nineteenth  century. 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  217 


With  the  publication  of  Les  Martyrs  and  the  Itineraire, 
followed  somewhat  later  by  Le  Dernier  Ahenccrage  and 
Les  Natchez,  we  may  regard  the  literary  pliase  of  M.  de 
Chateaubriand's  life  to  have  terminated.  His  subsequent 
publications,  Etudes  historiqucs,  Coyigres  de  Verone,  and 
the  translation  of  Paradise  Lost,  were  the  productions, 
comparatively,  of  his  age,  and  need  not  be  more  particu- 
larly noticed. 

The  political  life  of  Chateaubriand  belongs  to  the  Ees- 
toration,  but  he  made  one  or  two  episodical  excursions 
into  the  domain  of  public  affairs  under  the  Empire.  In 
1803,  after  the  completion  of  the  C'o?icorfZrt^,  ISTapoleon  re- 
solved to  send  an  embassy  to  Eome,  and  nominated  his 
uncle.  Cardinal  Fesch,  as  Minister,  and  Chateaubriand, 
then  in  the  full  bloom  of  his  fame  as  author  of  the  Genie 
die  Christianisme,  as  Secretary  of  Legation.  The  ap- 
pointment seemed  a  fittijig  one,  and  Chateaubriand  ac- 
cepted it  as  an  appropriate  testimony  to  his  merits  ;  but 
his  elation  was  considerable,  and  he  conducted  himself 
as  young  men  and  vain  men  will  do  under  such  circum- 
stances.* He  immediately  became,  in  his  own  eyes,  the 
soul  and  centre  of  the  embassy,  and  relegated  the  Cardi- 
nal, in  fancy,  to  a  subordinate  position ;  imagining  that 
Napoleon  had  intended  liim  to  do  all  the  work,  and  his 
chief  to  be  a  mere  roi  faineant,  —  a  sort  of  nominis  umhra 
He  therefore  preceded  the  ambassador  to  Rome,  and,  in 
defiance  of  all  official  etiquette  and  decorous  reticence, 
procured  an  audience  of  the  Pope,  presented  his  creden- 
tials, and  proceeded  to  make  good  his   position.      The 

*  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  he  accepted  the  nomination  gladly, 
and  in  the  sincere  hope  of  being  able  to  render  special  services  to  the 
Church  ;  but  in  his  Memoires  he  endeavors  to  pei'suade  us  that  he  was 
most  reluctant  ;  conscious,  he  says,  "  que  je  ne  vaux  rien  du  tout  en 
seconde  ligne  "  ;  but  was  induced  to  forego  his  objections  by  the  represen- 
tations of  the  Abbe  Emery.  But,  as  if  he  could  never  be  consistent  or 
able  to  see  matters  as  they  really  were  when  himself  was  concerned,  he 
goes  on  to  say  that  his  real  determining  cause  was  the  failing  health  of 
his  friend  Madame  de  Beaumont,  for  whom  the  climate  of  Italy  was 
recommended,  and  who  agreed  to  accompany  him  if  he  went  to  Rome. 
'*  Je  Tiu  sacrijiai  a  Tespoir  de  la  sauver." 
10 


218  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

arrival  of  the  Cardinal  replaced  him  in  his  natural  sub- 
ordination, and  reduced  him  to  comparative  obscurity. 
This  was  intolerable  to  a  man  of  Ids  insatiable  vanity 
and  extravagant  expectations,  and  he  complained  bitterly 
of  his  disappointment.  The  secret  official  correspondence 
of  the  Cardinal,  and  the  private  letters  of  his  secretary, 
durin<^  the  whole  duration  of  their  ill-assorted  union,  are 
filled  with  reciprocal  reproaches  and  complaints  ;  and  at 
length  Chateaubriand  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  forward 
(through  Madame  Bacciochi,  we  believe)  a  long  note  to 
the  First  Consul,  containing  much  political  information 
and  suggestions  which  ought  to  have  been  transmitted 
through  the  Cardinal,  and  many  insinuations  against  the 
Cardinal  himself,  which  ought  never  to  have  been  trans- 
mitted at  all.  The  truth  was,  that  Chateaubriand  was  of 
all  men  the  least  fitted  for  a  diplomatic  post  of  any  sort. 
He  was  too  conceited,  intriguing,  and  insubordinate  for  a 
secondary  position,  and  far  too  suspicious,  irritable,  and 
gullible  through  vanity,  for  a  principal  one.  An  ambas- 
sador should  be  keen-sighted,  calm-tempered,  firm,  some- 
what pachydermatous,  and  as  free  from  weaknesses  which 
foes  and  rivals  can  play  upon  as  may  be.  Chateaubriand 
was  susceptible,  impulsive,  unsociable,  giving  and  taking 
offence  with  equal  readiness,  and  as  full  of  obvious  and 
manageable  foibles  as  any  man  that  ever  breathed.  He 
soon  grew  sick  of  liis  situation.  He  considered  the  Car- 
dinal to  be  an  incapable  fool,  the  Cardinal  looked  upon 
him  as  a  meddling  and  intriguing  upstart ;  the  Pirst 
Consul  became  weary  of  their  squabbles,  but  was  per- 
suaded by  the  vigilant  friendship  of  M.  de  Fontanes  to 
anticipate  Chateaubriand's  intended  resignation  by  ap- 
pointing him  minister  to  the  newly  constituted  Republic 
of  the  Valais.  Chateaubriand  returned  to  Paris  on  his 
way  to  his  post,  which,  though  really  insignificant,  Avas 
an  apparent  promotion ;  but,  while  there,  was  shocked 
and  startled,  in  common  Math  the  rest  of  Europe,  by  learn- 
ing one  morning  the  seizure  and  execution  of  the  Due 
d'Enghien.  In  the  first  moment  of  horror  and  indig- 
nation, he  sat  down  and  wrote  his  resignation   to   the 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  219 


Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs.  It  was  a  noble  and  gener- 
ous impulse,  and  did  infinite  credit  both  to  the  feeling 
and  the  courage  of  the  young  diplomatist.  For  Napoleon, 
though  not  yet  emperor,  was  on  the  point  of  becoming 
so,  and  was  virtually  all-powerful ;  and  the  man  who,  in 
defiance  of  all  law  and  right,  had  just  stained  his  hands 
with  the  blood  of  a  Conde,  was  not  likely  to  hesitate  in 
punishing  any  inferior  victim  who  might  brave  or  blame 
him.  It  was  a  period,  too,  in  which  civil  bravery  and 
independent  conscience  were  at  their  lowest  ebb  in 
France.  All  honor,  therefore,  to  Cliateaubriand  for  his 
prompt  and  spirited  proceeding ;  but  why,  in  his  Memoircs, 
should  he  seek  to  enhance  the  merit  of  the  deed  by  speak- 
ing as  if  he  alone  of  all  existing  Frenchmen  was  capable 
of  such  conduct,  and  as  if  all  his  friends  were  paralyzed 
with  consternation  at  his  audacity  ?  *  Why,  in  relating 
an  act  which  so  much  redounds  to  his  glory,  need  he  seek 
to  monopolize  that  glory,  and  discolor  facts  that  he  may 
do  so  ?  "  For  many  days,"  he  writes,  "  my  friends  came 
trembling  to  my  door,  expecting  to  find  that  I  had  been 
carried  off  by  the  police.  M.  de  Fontanes  became  nearly 
wild  ivith  terror  at  the  first  moment ;  he,  like  all  my  best 
friends,  considered  me  shot."  Yet  Chateaubriand,  when 
he  wrote  this,  must  have  been  fully  conscious  of  its  in- 
accuracy and  injustice  ;  for  he  knew  that  two  days  after 
the  crime,  when  the  Monitcur,  by  direction  of  Napoleon, 
had  altered  the  wording  of  an  address  presented  to  him 
by  j\I.  de  Fontanes  as  President  of  the  Legislative  Cham- 
ber, so  as  to  give  it  the  appearance  of  approving  the 
murder,  tliis  same  friend,  whom  he  represents  as  wild 
with  fright,  had  the  courage  to  insist  on  the  public  cor- 
rection of  the  error.  He  relates  himself  also,  in  a  later 
portion  of  his  Memoirs,  that  a  few  months  afterwards, 
when  Napoleon  had  been  crowned  emperor,  and  was  even 
more  absolute  and  formidable  than  befoi^e,  he  said  to 
Fontanes,  with  his  customary  brutality,  "  Eh  bien,  Fon- 

*  Wh}'',  too,  spoil  the  record  of  one  of  the  few  single-minded  acts  of 
his  whole  life  by  hinting  at  a  motive  of  vanity  ?  Why  the  reflection, 
"  En  osant  quitter  Bonaparte,  je  me  pltii^ais  a  son  niveau  "  ? 


220  LITER AEY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 


tanes,  vous  pensez  toujours  a  votre  Due  d'Enghien."  His 
interlocutor  was  bold  enough  to  reply  in  a  tone  of  grave 
rebuke,  "  II  me  semble  que  i'Empereur  y  pense  autant  que 
moi."  In  trutli,  Cliateaubriand  was  far  from  beini,'  as 
unique  as  he  fancied  in  his  courage  on  that  occasion. 
M.  Suard,  an  old  Academician,  and  then  editor  of  a 
journal,  Le  FuUiciste,  on  being  desired  by  the  minister  of 
the  day  to  "  set  public  opinion  right "  on  the  subject  of 
the  official  murder,  sent  this  plain  reply,  at  least  as  bold 
and  honorable  as  M.  de  Chateaubriand's  :  "  I  am  seventy- 
three  years  old,  and  neither  my  mind  nor  my  conscience, 
any  more  than  my  limbs,  have  grown  supple  with  age. 
The  trial'  and  execution  of  the  Duke  are  proceedings 
which  I  deplore,  and  which  contravene  all  my  notions  of 
justice  and  humanity.  I  cannot  therefore  '  rectify '  an 
opinion  which  I  share." 

No  one,  however,  ever  doubted  Chateaubriand's  cour- 
age or  high  sense  of  honor  in  j^olitical  affairs.  He 
gave  another  proof  of  it  in  1807,  by  publishing  in  the 
Mcrcurc  —  a  literary  paper  of  which  he  had  become  the 
editor  —  an  article  containing,  among  other  pungent  re- 
flections, the  following  famous  passage,  of  which  the 
writer  was  immensely  proud :  — 

"  Lorsque,  dans  le  silence  de  Tabjection,  Ton  n'entend  plus 
retentir  que  la  chalne  de  Tesclave  et  la  voix  du  delateur ; 
lorsque  tout  tremble  devant  le  tyran,  et  qu'il  est  aussi  dau- 
gereux  d'encourir  sa  faveur  que  de  meriter  sa  disgrace,  I'his- 
torieu  parait,  chai'ge  de  la  vengeance  des  peuples.  C'est  en 
vain  que  Neron  prosp^re ;  Tacite  est  deja  n^  dans  Tempire. 
....  Si  le  rule  de  Thistorien  est  beau,  il  est  souvent  dange- 
reux  ;  mais  il  est  des  autels  comme  celui  de  rhonneur,  qui, 
bieu  qu'abandonnes,  reclameut  encore  des  saci'ifices;  le  Dieu 
n'est  point  an^auti  parceque  le  temple  est  desert." 

So  sunk  was  France  then  in  slavery  and  silence,  that  a 
sentence  like  this  was  like  the  sudden  sound  of  a  trum- 
pet in  a  Quakers'  meeting  or  at  a  funeral  procession ;  the 
excitement  was  extraordinary ;  Xapoleon  was  furious ; 
the  Mcrcurc  was  suppressed,  and,  according  to  the  Me- 
moires  cV outre  Tonibe,  the  audacious  writer  was  ordered  to 


CHATEAUBKIAND.  221 


be  arrested.  This,  however,  was  never  done  —  probably 
was  never  ordered.  The  sentences  which  introduce  and 
close  this  episode  in  the  Memoirs  are  too  characteristic 
to  be  omitted.  Chateaubriand  begins  the  narrative  by- 
saying,  "  It  was  not  .in  vain  that  I  wore  a  countenance 
tanned  by  exposure  to  the  sun  (he  had  just  returned 
from  the  East)  ;  I  had  not  encountered  the  wrath  of 
heaven  (Anglice,  the  heat  of  a  Syrian  summer)  to  trem- 
ble before  the  anger  of  a  man.  Si  Napoleon  en  avait 
lini  avec  les  rois,  il  nen  avait  j9a-s  fini  avcc  moi,"  etc. 
And  after  describing  the  rage  of  the  Emperor,  he  con- 
cludes thus  :  "  Ma  propriete  perit ;  ma  personne  echappa 
par  miracle ;  Bonaparte  eut  d  s'occupcr  clu  monde ;  il 
m'ouhlia." 

But  Chateaubriand's  real  entrance  into  the  arena  of 
political  life  was  effected  by  his  famous  pamphlet,  Bona- 
•parte  et  les  Bourlons ;  and  a  more  splendid  inauguration 
never  man  had.  Like  the  Genie  du  Christianisme,  this 
fierce  and  spirit-stirring  invective  came  out  in  the  very 
nick  of  time  ;  like  that  production,  it  caught  the  tide  on 
its  turn ;  it  gave  utterance  to  the  pent-up  feelings  of 
millions,  decided  the  movements  of  the  wavering,  and 
clinched  and  whetted  the  passions  of  the  exasperated 
and  the  wronged.  It  was  written  during  the  last  strug- 
gle of  Napoleon  for  existence  and  for  empire  on  the  soil 
of  Erance  (the  author  tells  us  it  was  written  amid  mor- 
tal anxieties  and  in  the  greatest  danger,  with  locked 
doors  at  night  and  with  loaded  pistols  by  his  side) ;  it 
appeared  when  the  allied  armies  were  at  the  gates '  of 
Paris,  when  Napoleon  was  at  Fontainebleau  in  the  ago- 
nies of  meditated  abdication,  and  wdien  the  conquerors 
and  the  people  were  alike  hesitating  as  to  the  govern- 
ment and  the  ruler  they  would  choose.  Never  was  a 
shot  so  opportune  or  so  telling.  By  enumerating  all  the 
cri;nes  and  tyrannies  of  Napoleon,  and  painting  them  in 
colors  and  in  traits  that  made  the  heart  of  the  whole  na- 
tion at  once  rage  and  bleed,  it  g"ave  -the  coup-de-grdce  to 
the  falling  oppressor ;  and  by  appealing  to  all  the  ancient 
and  long  dormant  but  not  extinguished  sentiments  of  loy- 


LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 


alty  and  chivalry  wliich  M'cre  once  so  powerful  amon;,'  the 
French  peoj)le,  hy  ])leading  the  old  glories  and  the  recent 
sulferings  of  the  exiled  race,  —  it  went  iar  to  determine 
the  counsels  of  the  liberators  and  the  liberated  alike  in 
favor  of  what  was,  in  fact,  the  only  sound  decision,  — 
the  recall  of  the  I3ourbons  to  the  throrre.  Louis  XVIII. 
may  or  may  not  have'  said,  as  Chateaubriand  more  than 
once  asserts,  that  this  pamphlet  "  was  worth  to  liim  a 
liundred  thousand  men " ;  but  if  he  did  say  so,  it  was 
only  a  somewhat  extravagant  expression  of  the  truth. 
As  usual,  however,  Chateaubriand  endeavors  to  monopo- 
lize all  the  credit  of  the  event  to  which  he  was  only 
one  —  though  perhaps  the  chief — of  the  contributors; 
and  he  would  fain  persuade  us  in  his  Memoires  that  even 
Talleyrand  was  in  favor  of  a  compromise  and  a  regency, 
—  Talleyrand,  who  had  especial  reason  to  hate  and  dread 
everything  Napoleonic ;  Talleyrand,  who  so  tersely  urged 
upon  the  half-reluctant  and  still-admiring  Alexander : 
"  Louis  XVIII.  est  un  principe ;  Bonaparte  est  un  prin- 
cipe  ;  —  tout  ce  qui  n'est  ni  I'un  ni  I'autre  n'est  qu'une 
intrigue." 

In  our  judgment,  this  pamphlet  is  beyond  question 
the  best  production  of  Chateaubriand's  pen,  because  it  is 
by  far  the  truest  and  most  earnest.  It  is  the  utterance, 
somewhat  excessive,  perhaps,  but  not  unwarranted,  of 
the  righteous  and  relentless  indignation  of  a  public  man 
against  perhaps  the  greatest  public  criminal  of  modern 
times,  pointed  and  heightened  by  the  smouldering  fury 
of  the  private  foe.  It  is  concentrated  passion,  approach- 
ing to  malignity,  let  loose  in  a  cause  which  almost  hal- 
lowed the  emotion.  The  invective  is  splendid  ;  the  tone 
and  language  are  throughout  superb.  From  first  to  last 
there  is  scarcely  an  ornament  or  a  trope ;  for  once  the 
author  tliought  more  of  his  subject  than  of  himself, — 
more  of  tlie  wounds  he  could  inflict  than  of  tlie  dazzle 
he  could  make.  Here  he  fights  like  a  gladiator  in  the 
arena  of  life  and  death,  dependent  on  the  keenness  of 
his  thrusts  and  the  sharpness  of  his  sword ;  in  all  his 
previous  displays  he  has  been  attitudinizing  like  a  fencing- 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  223 


master  on  the  stage,  studying  every  posture,  pausing  at 
every  instant  to  admire  and  point  out  how  bright  is 
his  blade,  and  how  skilful  are  his  lunges  and  his  guards. 
The  pungency  and  effectiveness  of  the  style  are  some- 
thing unrivalled ;  and  herein,  by  the  way,  lay  always 
Chateaubriand's. chief  force.  His  picture  of  the  sufier- 
ing  caused  by  the  conscription  must  have  exasperated 
the  feelings  of  every  family  in  France  nearly  to  fury. 
"  Les  generations  de  la  France  etaient  inises  en  coupe  re'glee 
connne  les  arhrcs  d' une  foret :  chaque  annee  80,000  jeunes 

gens  etaient  abattus On  en  etait  venu  a,  ce  point 

de  mepris  pour  la  vie  des  hommes  et  pour  la  France, 
d'appeler  les  conscrits  la  matiere  premiere,  et  la  chair  ci, 

canon Bonaparte  disait  lui-meme :  J'ai  300,000 

hommes  de  revenu."  We  have  no  space  to  quote  ;  but  all 
who  wish  to  see  the  eloquence  of  invective  carried  to  the 
very  perfection  of  magnificence  should  read  the  last  few 
pages,  beginning,  "Bonaparte  est  un  faux  grand  homme"  ; 
and  again  the  passage,  "  Bonaparte  n'est  point  change : 
il  ne  changera  jamais  " ;  and  that  where  he  concludes, 
"  Que  les  Franqais  et  les  Allies  reconnaissent  leurs  princes 
legitimes ;  et  a  I'instant  I'armee,  deliee  de  son  serment, 
se  rangera  sous  le  drapeau  sans  tache,  souvent  temoin  de 
nos  triomphes,  quelquefois  de  nos  re  vers,  toujours  de 
notre  courage,  jamais  de  notre  honte." 

It  has  been  objected  to  Chateaubriand  that  there  was 
something  ignoble  and  ungenerous  in  firing  a  shot  like 
this,  weighted  with  the  accumulated  animosity  of  years, 
into  the  flank  of  a  falling  foe,  and  in  thus  rejoicing  over 
the  defeat  of  a  French  ruler  by  foreign  arms.  The  ob- 
jection, we  confess,  appears  to  us  quite  unjust.  Cha- 
teaubriand had  opposed  and  condemned  Napoleon  in  the 
lieight  of  his  power  ;  he  had  earned  the  right  to  attack 
him  when  and  where  he  could ;  and  the  pamphlet  M-as 
published  at  the  first  moment  when  publication  was  pos- 
sible. The  crisis  was  j)erilous  and  decisive ;  hesitation 
prevailed  everywhere  ;  a  little  more  timidity  on  the  part 
of  the  Allies,  a  little  more  moderation  on  the  part  of 
Napoleon,  and  a  compromise  fatal  to  all  parties  might 


224  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

have  been  accepted  ;  and  what  then  would  have  been  the 
position  of  Chateaubriand  ?  He  did  excellent  service  ; 
he  encountered  considerable  risk  ;  and  we  tliink  he  would 
have  been  guilty  of  a  dereliction  of  duty  if  any  false 
notions  of  generosity  liad  witliheld  liini  from  striking  at 
so  critical  a  conjuncture.  It  was  simply  impossible,  too, 
not  to  welcome  the  Allies ;  they  were  lelt  by  the  whole 
nation  to  be  deliverers ;  Napoleon  had  come  to  be  exe- 
crated as  much  as  he  was  feared  :  he  was,  in  the  eyes  of 
rrenchmen,  less  their  sovereign  than  their  jailer  and 
oppressor.  A  far  graver  and  more  real  offence,  in  our 
estimate,  was  his  repudiation  of  these  sentiments  in  later 
years,  when  his  loyalty  was  someM'hat  cooled  under  tlie 
influence  of  disappointed  vanity,  and  when  he  had  to 
jposer  in  a  befitting  attitude  before  a  public  whose  feel- 
ings, like  his  own,  had  undergone  a  change.  At  the 
time,  in  1814,  he  hailed  the  success  and  the  arrival  of 
the  allied  invaders  with  delight ;  every  page  of  the  pam- 
phlet bears  witness  to  his  joy  at  their  approach^  his  grati- 
tude at  their  behavior,  and  his  alarm  lest  they  should 
listen  to  a  compromise,  and  leave  Napoleon  on  the  throne 
of  a  diminished  kingdom.  It  was  natural  he  should  feel 
thus  ;  he  had  a  right  to  feel  thus.  But  how,  then,  could 
he  venture  in  his  ]\Hmoircs  on  the  falsehood  of  describing 
himself  as  wretched  and  humiliated  on  seeing  the  en- 
trance of  the  allied  sovereigns  ?  "  Je  les  vis  defiler  sur 
les  boulevards,  slupefait  ct  aneanti  au  dedans  de  moi, 
comme  si  Ton  m'arrachait  mon  nom  de  Franqois,  pour  y 
substituer  le  numdro  par  lequel  je  devais  desormais  etre 
connu  dans  les  mines  de  la  Siberie  "  (III.  348). 

So  powerful  and  well-timed  a  production  as  BonafarU 
et  les  Bourhons,  coming  from  a  man  so  eminent  in  litera- 
ture, at  once  brought  Chateaubriand  into  contact  with 
the  restored  monarch  and  his  court,  and  enrolled  him  for 
the  future  on  the  list  of  active  politicians  and  possible 
ministers.  But  it  appears  to  have  been  immediately  and 
instinctively  felt  that,  with  all  his  genius,  he  was  too 
little  of  a  practical  man  for  the  crisis.  He  received 
many  compliments,  but  no  place ;  and  the  vacant  em- 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  225 


bassy  to  Sweden,  to  which  he  was  at  length  nominated, 
owing  to  the  untiring  zeal  of  one  of  his  devoted  admirers, 
Madame  de  Duras,  was  far  from  satisfying  his  expecta- 
tions. He  speaks  of  the  appointment  with  considerable 
bitterness ;  and  l^efore  he  could  take  it  up,  the  return  of 
Napoleon  from  Elba  once  more  scattered  the  whole  roy- 
alist party  to  the  winds.  M.  de  Chateaubriand  followed 
his  master  to  Ghent,  and  there  became  one  of  the  advis- 
ers and  nominal  ministers  of  the  fugitive  king  and  the 
mock' court.  There,  though  he  had  nothing  to  do  as  min- 
ister, he  was  active  with  his  pen.  He  presented  sagacious 
memorials  to  Louis  XVII I.,  and  wrote  brilliant  articles 
in  the  Moniteur  de  Gaiul :  but  the  exigeant  vanity  and 
hauteur  of  his  character  made  themselves  unpleasantly 
felt  at  the  council-board ;  his  acute  sovereign  soon  took 
his  measure,  though  perhaps  he  valued  his  talents  too 
little  and  was  irritated  by  his  manners  too  much.  "  He 
was,  I  admit,"  says  M.  Guizot,  who  knew  him  well  both 
then  and  afterwards,  "  an  inconvenient  ally ;  for  he  pre- 
tended to  everything,  and  was  hurt  and  offended  at  every- 
thing :  on  a  level  with  the  finest  minds  and  the  rarest 
geniuses,  it  was  his  illusion  also  to  think  himself  the 
equal  of  the  most  consummate  statesmen ;  and  his  soul 
was  filled  with  bitterness  because  men  would  not  admit 
him  to  be  the  rival  of  Napoleon  as  well  as  of  Milton. 
Earnest  men,  and  men  of  the  world,  would  not  lend 
themselves  to  this  idolatrous  folly ;  but  they  under- 
estimated his  real  power,  and  forgot  how  dangerous  be 
might  be." 

Under  the  second  restoration,  the  position  of  j\I.  de 
Chateaubriand  was  anomalous  and  painful.  Unpopular 
at  court ;  feeling  himself  neglected  and  postponed  to  men 
in  all  respects  inferior  to  himself;  indignant  at  the  King 
for  admitting  into  his  Cabinet  such  feeble  favorites  as 
Blacas,  and  sucli  abandoned  villains  as  Foucht^ ;  sharing 
all  the  angry  and  vindictive  passions  of  the  ultra-royal- 
ists, while  holding  all  the  constitutional  doctrines  of  the 
liberals,  —  he  found  himself  in  a  state  of  inconsistent 
and  universal  opposition.     Discontented  with  every  one 

10*  o 


22G  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

and  objectiiifT  to  everythinj:^,  he  struck  right  and  left 
impartially,  if  not  indiscriminately.  Nominated  to  the 
Cliamber  of  Peers  in  that  diflicult  and  embittered  con- 
juncture, he  fought  much  like  a  wild  horse,  biting  those 
before  him,  kicking  those  behind  him;  insisting  vehe- 
mently on  the  liberty  of  the  press  ;  contending  no  less 
vehemently  the  next  moment  for  the  removability  of  the 
judges  ;  bent  alike  on  enforcing'  all  his  own  views  of 
I'rcedom,  and  on  crushing  his  enemies,  if  need  be,  by  all 
the  resources  of  despotism ;  laboring  with  equal  zeal  to 
re-establish  the  old  legitimate  monarchy  of  France,  and 
to  confine  that  monarchy  within  the  limits  of  the  English 
constitution.  The  fact  was,  that  then,  as  always,  he  M'as 
obeying  his  instincts,  which  were  strong  and  steady, — 
not  his  convictions,  which  were  always  weak  and  wan- 
dering. He  wished  for  a  powerful  government,  provided 
he  might  be  its  chief;  and  he  wished  for  a  free  press, 
because  he  was  sure  always  to  be  its  brightest  ornament 
and  its  supreme  director.  The  world  was  to  be  so  organ- 
ized as  best  to  bring  out  the  faculties  and  the  grandeur 
of  Franqois-Eene  de  Chateaubriand.  From  1816  to  1820 
Chateaubriand,  partly  in  the  Chamber,  but  still  more  in 
the  journals,  may  be  regarded  as  the  leader  of  the  op- 
position ;  and  his  chief  sin  in  these  days  was,  that,  while 
all  wise  and  good  men  were  doing  their  utmost  to  smooth 
down  the  still  rankling  animosities  of  the  past  and  to 
reconcile  parties  and  hostile  men  by  moderation  and  by 
compromise,  Chateaubriand  was  the  declared  enemy  of 
all  moderation  and  all  compromise ;  he  sought  to  excite 
passions,  not  to  allay  them ;  his  warfare  was  violent  and 
bitter,  and  his  language  sometimes  utterly  atrocious,  — 
as  when  he  endeavored  to  associate  the  quiet  and  modest 
Decazes,  j  ast  then  falling  from  power,  with  the  murder 
of  the  Due  de  Berry,  saying,  "  ses  pieds  ont  glisses  dans 
le  sang."  He  inaugurated  the  campaign  by  publishing 
his  MonarcMe  scion  la  Chartc,  in  which,  with  the  greatest 
clearness  and  brilliancy,  he  expounds  and  enforces  the 
advantages  of  parliamentary  government  and  the  sole 
responsibility  of  ministers ;  while  mixing  with  his  wis- 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  227 


dom  some  singular  inconsistencies,  which  laid  him  open 
to  severe  retort,  and  showed  how  imperfect  and  un- 
thorough  was  his  political  philosophy.  This  work  gave 
great  offence  to  the  King,  and  an  abortive  attempt  was 
even  made  to  suppress  it  and  to  prosecute  the  author. 
Shortly  afterwards  Chateaubriand  set  up  Le  Conservatcur, 
a  journal  of  his  own,  in  which  he  displayed  wonderful 
skill  and  vigor  as  a  polemic,  —  skill  and  vigor,  however, 
not  great  enough  to  conceal  for  one  moment,  or  to  excuse 
to  any  lionest  mind,  the  bitter  personal  feeling  from  which 
they  drew  their  inspiration.  He  says,  "  The  revolution 
wrought  by  this  journal  was  unexampled :  in  France,  it 
changed  the  majority  in  the  two  Chambers ;  abroad,  it 
transformed  the  spirit  of  the  Cabinets  of  Europe."  With- 
out echoing  this  somewhat  extravagant  self-glorification, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  produced  a  vast  effect  on 
the  state  of  parties,  and  that  to  it  was  mainly  due  the 
advent  of  M.  de  Chateaubriand  and  his  friends  to  power. 
M.  de  Villele  and  M.  de  Corbiere  entered  the  Cabinet, 
and  Chateaubriand  was  appointed  ambassador  to  Ber- 
lin. The  next  year  their  party  was  triumphant  in  the 
Chambers  and  in  the  government ;  JVI.  de  Mont- 
morency became  Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs,  and  to 
Chateaubriand  fell  the  gorgeous  prize  of  the  embassy  to 
England. 

One  might  have  fancied  that  so  eminent  a  post  —  the 
highest  in  the  diplomatic  world — would  have  satisiied 
for  a  time  even  his  restless  and  exacting  ambition.  It 
certainly  gratified  his  vanity  in  no  ordinary  measure  ;  and 
in  his  Memoires  his  delight  breaks  out  in  a  fashion  which, 
but  for  the  incurable  bitterness  and  affectation  mingled 
with  it,  would  be  almost  that  of  a  child  or  a  parvenu. 
But  the  delight  of  a  child  is  simple :  that  of  a  parvenu 
is  bombastic :  Chateaubriand's  is  sour,  pretentious,  pea- 
cockish,  and  pettish,  with  assumed  contempt,  —  the  out- 
pouring of  a  miserable  and  devastated  spirit,  insisting 
on  everything  and  satisfied  with  nothing.  His  own  ac- 
count so  paiuts  himself  that  we  must  quote  it  at  some 
length :  — 


228  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

"  Thirty-one  years  after  sailing  for  America,  a  simple  en- 
sign, I  embarked  for  London  with  a  jjassport  thus  conceived  : 
'  La issez  passer  his  Lordsliip  Vicomte  de  Cliateaubriand,  Peer 
of  Franco,  Ambassador  to  his  Britannic  Majesty,  etc'  Ko 
personal  description ;  ma  grandeur  devait  faire  comuiitre  mon 
visage  en  tous  lieux.  A  steamboat,  chartered  for  me  alone, 
brought  me  from  Calais  to  Dover.  On  landing,  on  the  5th 
April,  1822,  I  was  saluted  by  the  gims  of  the  fortress.  An 
officer  came  from  the  commandant  to  offer  me  a  guard  of 
honor.  The  landlord  and  waiters  of  the  Ship  Inn  came  out 
to  receive  me,  with  heads  bare  and  arms  by  their  side.  The 
mayoress  invites  me  to  a  soiree  in  the  name  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful ladies  of  the  town.  An  enormous  dinner  of  magnificent 
fish  and  beef  restores  M.  i'Ambassadeur,  who  had  no  appetite 
and  was  not  at  all  tired.  Sentinels  stood  at  my  door,  and  the 
people  shouted  huzzas  under  my  windows 

"The  17th  of  May,  1793,  I  had  disembarked  an  obscure 
and  humble  traveller  at  Southampton.  No  mayoress  noticed 
my  arrival ;  the  mayor  gave  me  a  feiiille-de-7'ovfe,  with  an 
extract  from  the  Alien  Bill,  and  a  personal  description : 
'Francois  de  Chateaubriand,  French  emigrant,  five  feet  four 
inches  high,  thin,  brown  hair  and  whiskers:'  I  shared  a  con- 
veyance of  the  cheapest  sort  with  some  sailors  on  leave  ;  I 
entered  the  city  where  Pitt  reigned,  —  poor,  sick,  and  unknown, 
and  lorlged  for  six  shillings  a  month  in  a  garret  in  Tottenham- 
Court  Road. 

"  Now,  however,  obscurity  of  a  different  sort  spreads  its 
gloom  over  me  in  London.  Mj  political  position  overshadows 
my  literary  renown  :  there  is  not  a  fool  in  the  three  kingdoms 
who  does  not  think  more  of  the  ambassador  of  Louis  XVI I L 

than  of  the  author  of  the  Genie  du  Christianisvie How 

I  regret,  in  the  midst  of  my  insipid  pomp,  the  tears  and 
tribulations  of  my  early  years  in  England  !  .  .  .  .  "When  I 
come  home  now  in  1822,  instead  of  being  received  by  my 
friend  in  our  miserable  attic,  and  sitting  on  a  flock-bed,  I 
have  to  pass  through  two  files  of  flunkeys,  ending  in  five  or 
six  respectful  secretaries  ;  and  I  reach  at  last,  overwhelmed 
with  Monseigneiir,  My  Lord,  Your  Excellence,  Monsieur  F Ani- 
bassadeur,  a  drawing-room  all  carpeted  with  silk  and  gold.  O 
gentlemen,  let  me  alone,  I  entreat  you.  Be  quiet  with  your 
J///  Lords.  '  The  Marquis  of  Londonderry  is  coming,'  you 
say  ;  '  the  Duke  of  Wellington  has  asked  for  me ;  Mr.  Can- 


CHATEAUBRIAND.    .  229 


ning  seeks  me  ;  Lady  Jersey  waits  for  me  at  dinner  with 
Mr.  Brougliam  ;  Lady  Gwydyr  expects  me  at  ten  o'clock 
at  her  opera  box ;  and  Lady  Mansfield,  at  midnight,  at  Al- 
mack's  !  ' 

"Have  pity  on  me;  where  shall  I  hide  myself]  who  will 
deliver  me  1  who  will  rescue  me  from  these  persecutions  ] 
Return,  return,  ye  charming  days  of  misery  and  solitude," 
etc.,  etc. 

And  so  lie  goes  on  for  some  pages. 

A  little  further  on,  in  the  same  volume,  while  describ- 
ing the  Canadian  forests,  he  breaks  off  thus :  "  And  who 
is  the  monarch  whose  rule  now  replaces  that  of  France 
over  these  regions  ?     He  ivho  yesterday  sent  me  this  note : 

"  '  Royal  Lodge,  Windsor. 
"'Monsieur  le  Vicomte,  —  I  am  ordered  by  the  King  to 
invite  your  Excellence  to  dinner  and  a  bed  here  on  Thursday 
next. 

" '  Frances  Conyngham.'  " 

This  polite  note  of  Lady  Conyngham,  thus  lugged  in 
by  the  head  and  shoulders,  to  sliow  us  how  familiar  he 
had  become  witli  the  great,  is  greeted  by  the  following 
piece  of  inflated  affectation  in  the  richest  style  of  *par- 
venuism :  "  II  dtait  dans  ma  destinee  d'etre  tourmente 
par  des  princes  ! " 

In  the  next  volume  we  find  a  parallel  passage :  — 

"  Those  who  read  this  part  of  my  Memoirs  may  have  ob- 
served that  I  have  interrupted  them  twice,  —  once  to  give  a 
great  dinner  to  the  Duke  of  York,  brother  of  the  King  of 
England  ;  the  other  time  to  give  nfete  on  the  anniversary  of 
the  restoration  of  the  King  of  France,  litis  fete  cost  me  fort  ij 
thousand  francs.  Peers  and  peeresses  of  the  British  Empire, 
ambassadors,  and  foreigners  of  distinction,  filled  my  splendidly 
decorated  rooms.  My  table  glittered  with  glass,  gold,  and 
porcelain,  and  was  covered  with  all  that  was  most  delicate  in 
food,  wine,  and  flowers.  Portland  Place  was  thronged  with 
brilliant  equipages.  The  best  music  of  Almack's  charmed  the 
fashionable  melancholij  of  dandies  and  ihe  elegant  reveries  of- 
pensively  dancing  ladies.     The  Opposition  and    the   Ministry 


230  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

came  to  a  trnco  in  my  halls  ;  Lady  Canning  [who  did  not 
then  exist]  talked  with  Lord  LondondcJTy,  and  Lady  Jersey 
with  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  Monsieur  [Charles  X.],  who 
complimented  me  on  the  sumptuousness  of  my  entertixinments 
in  1822,  never  dreamed  in  1793  that  there  lived  near  him  a 
future  minister  who,  waiting  for  his  grandeurs,  was  then  fast- 
ing in  a  churchyard,  as  a  penalty  for  having  heen  faithful  to 
his  prince."* 

The  position  of  ambassadorin  London, brilliant  as  it  was, 
could  not  long  satisfy  him.  He  pined  to  be  in  a  brighter 
scene,  and  more  immediately  in  contact  with  the  centre 
of  political  action.  At  this  period  the  uncured  folly  of 
the  restored  despots  was  causing  disturbance  in  various 
parts  of  Europe,  and  in  Spain  the  Cortes  and  tlie  sov- 
ereign were  in  open  hostility.  A  congress  of  sovereigns 
and  plenipotentiaries  was  to  meet  at  Verona  to  discuss 
the  perils  of  the  time,  and  Chateaubriand  longed  to  be 
among  them,  a  conspicuous  figure  in  the  brilliant  assem- 
blage. Montmorency,  the  Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs,  was 
going  as  the  representative  of  France,  and  neither  needed 
nor  much  fancied  so  clever  and  unmanageable  a  colleague. 
But  the  Ambassador  persisted  and  put  in  action  every 
means  of  influence  he  possessed.  He  applied  to  Mont- 
morency direct :  "  Je  pense  "  (he  says)  "  qu'il  est  bon 
pour  vous  et  pour  moi  que  vous  me  mettiez  en  rapport 
direct  avec  les  souverains  de  I'Europe :  rous  completcrez 
ainsi  ma  carriere,  et  vous  m'aurez  toujours  sous  la  main 
pour  vous  faire  des  amis  et  repousser  vos  ennemis."  He 
pressed  the  same  demand  unremittingly  upon  "S'illele, 
then  virtually  chief  of  the  Cabinet,  and  he  urged  IMadame 
Eecamier  to  use  all  her  skill  in  persuasion  to  obtain  for 
him  the  bawble  on  which  he  had  set  his  heart.  He  set 
Madame  de  Duras  also  to  work  for  the  same  end.  His 
pertinacity  was  successful,  and  he  went  to  Verona  to 

*  Chateaubriand  appears  to  lose  his  head  whenever  he  has  to  speak  of 
his  personal  relations  to  royalty.  In  mentioning  the  transference  to 
Saint-Denis,  in  1815,  of  tlie  mutilated  remains  of  the  royal  family,  he 
writes  :  "Among  these  bones  I  recognized  the  head  of  the  Queen  (wlio 
liad  been  decapitated  in  1793)  by  the  smile  which  she  had  given  me  at 
Versailles  !  "  (III,  402.) 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  231 


ixivoncggiarsi,  as  the  Italians  say,  among  the  congregated 
grandeurs  of  the  -world.  When  there,  as  we  learn  from 
his  own  and  Montmorency's  correspondence  with  Madame 
Eecamier,  as  well  as  from  other  more  formal  sources,  his 
conduct  was  not  that  either  of  a  loyal  colleague  or  a 
faithful  plenipotentiary.  His  vanity  had  been  more 
irritated  by  the  opposition  which  his  appointment  had 
met  with  in  the  first  instance  than  gratified  by  his  subse- 
quent success.  He  was  sulky  with  IMontmorency  and  dis- 
obedient to  Villele.  He  had  his  own  notions  of  what 
France  ought  to  do,  and  had  no  notion  of  obeying  the  in- 
structions of  his  government.  It  was  not  for  Villele  to 
direct  liim,  Chateaubriand,  nor  for  Montmorency  to  con- 
trol him ;  he  was  abler  and  greater  than  either,  and  was 
determined  to  follow  his  own  independent  course.  Few 
points  in  his  career  are  less  to  his  credit  as  a  man  of 
honor  and  of  principle  than  his  conduct  throughout  all 
these  transactions.  He  appears  to  have  deceived  both 
his  colleague  and  his  chief.  The  Holy  Alliance  wished 
to  put  down  the  Spanish  Eevolution  by  force,  and  to  use 
the  arms  of  France  for  this  purpose.  M.  de  Villele  was 
very  unwilling  that  France  should  be  so  used,  and  in- 
structed his  plenipotentiaries  not  to  lend  themselves  to 
any  such  result.  j\I.  de  Montmorency,  a  pious  zealot 
and  a  royalist  "par  excellence,,  was  anxious  to  interfere  by 
arms  in  the  affairs  of  Spain  as  a  matter  of  high  principle. 
M.  de  Chateaubriand,  pretending  to  agree  with  Villele, 
was  in  his  heart  even  more  anxious  for  a  war  in  Spain 
than  Montmorency,  though  for  a  different  motive,  as  he 
afterwards  repeatedly  avowed,  and  gloried  in  avowing. 
He  cared  comparatively  little,  almost  nothing,  indeed, 
about  the  respective  merits  of  the  King  and  the  Cortes 
in  their  civil  strife  ;  he  desired  only  a  war  in  which  the 
armies  of  France,  by  an  easy  and  certain  victory,  should 
restore  the  tarnished  lustre  of  their  military  fame.  This 
unprincipled  view  of  matters  we  take  from  his  own  im- 
pudent confession,  or  rather  from  his  own  immoral  boast- 
ings. He  wished  to  send  French  troops  somewhere ;  it 
mattered  little  where.     "  L'idee  de  rendre  de  la  force  et 


232  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JLTKJMENTS. 

de  I'eclat  a  nos  armes  me  dominait  toujours,"  he  says  in 
1822.*  Early  iu  that  year  he  urged  Montmorency  to 
send  troops  into  Piedmont,  reminding  him  that  when  at 
Berlin  the  previous  year  he  had  endeavored  to  persuade 
his  predecessor  to  march  an  army  into  Savoy,  when  an 
occasion  appeared  to  present  itsell'  for  interference.  Now, 
since  the  Italian  opportunity  had  been  lost,  he  was 
determined  that  the  Spanish  opportunity  should  lie 
made  use  of,  in  spite  of  the  objection  of  his  chief,  and 
without  reference  to  the  righteousness  of  the  cause.i* 
"  My  Spanish  war,  the  great  political  event  of  my  life  " 
(he  writes  twenty-three  years  later),  "was  a  gigantic 
enterprise.  Legitimacy  for  the  first  time  smelt  powder 
under  the  white  flag,  and  fired  its  first  shot  after  those 
shots  fired  under  the  Empire  which  the  latest  posterity 
will  hear.  To  march  over  Spain  at  a  single  step,  to  suc- 
ceed on  the  same  soil  whereon  the  armies  of  so  great  a 
conqueror  had  experienced  such  sad  reverses,  to  do  in  six 
months  vshat  Najjohtra  had  not  heen  able  to  do  in  seven 
years,  —  who  could  have  aspired  to  effect  such  a  mar\-el  ? 
Nevertheless,  this  is  what  I  did.''  It  ie  pretty  clear  now, 
from  authentic  documents  relating  to  the  secret  histor}- 
of  that  time,  as  well  as  from  Chateaubriand's  own  Me- 
moirs, that  the  ErenCh  invasion  of  Spain  (for  a  war  it 
scarcely  can  be  called)  was  concocted  between  the  Em- 
peror Alexander  and  the  Erench  plenipotentiary,  in  op- 
position to  the  Cabinets  both  of  London  and  of  Paris. 

And  now  comes  the  meanest,  if  not  the  most  immoral, 
part  of  these  transactions.  Montmorency  returned  to 
Paris,  leaving  Chateaubriand  still  at  Yerona.  Yillele  re- 
ceived him  very  coldly,  in  consequence  of  his  having, 
contrary  to  his  instructions,  almost  pledged  France  to  in- 
terfere by  force  in  Spain.  It  soon  became  evident  that 
the  Minister  for  Eoreign  Affairs,  differing  so  widely  from 

♦  Memoires,  IV.  181. 

+  In  one  of  his  letters  to  the  President  of  the  Council  from  Verona, 
he  writes,  "  C'est  a  tous  a  voir  si  vons  ne  derez  passaisir  une  occasion, 
peut-etre  unique,  de  replacer  la  France  au  rang  des  puissances  militaires, 
et  de  rihabUiter  la  coairde  blmuhe  dans  une  guerre  courte  et  presque 
sans  danger." 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  233 


the  President  of  the  Council  on  so  important  a  question, 
could  not  satisfactorily  continue  to  hold  office  under  him. 
M.  de  Montmorency  resigned  his  post  accordingly.  j\I. 
de  Chateaubriand,  who  while  at  Verona  had,  unknown  to 
his  colleague,  corresponded  privately  with  M.  de  Yillele, 
and  who,  on  this  same  question,  differed  from  Yillele 
even  more  widely  and  more  resolutely  than  Montmo- 
rency had  done,  after  a  few  decent  hesitations,  succeeded 
the  latter  as  Foreign  Minister.  Nay,  more,  in  his  private 
correspondence  he  had  more  than  once  hinted  to  Yillele 
his  willingness  to  accept  this  succession  to  a  not  then 
vacant  heritage.  The  sad  truth  is,  that  Chateaubriand's 
vanity  and  ambition  were  too  selfish  and  too  grasping  to 
permit  him  to  be  perfectly  a  gentleman  or  a  man  of 
honor  in  his  relations  either  with  ladies  or  with  col- 
leagues. Having  entered  the  Cabinet  on  the  understand- 
ing that  he  agreed  with  Yillele  and  disagreed  with  Mont- 
morency as  to  the  Spanish  war,  he  set  himself  to  work  to 
promote  that  war  as  earnestly  as  ]\Iontmorency  could  have 
wished,  and  took  to  himself  the  entire  credit  of  its  inau- 
guration and  its  success.  Yillele,  seeing  it  at  last  to  be 
inevitable,  made  no  further  opposition,  and  having  little 
amour  propre,  did  not  dispute  its  questionable  glories 
with  liis  insatiable  and  restless  colleague.  But  it  soon 
became  evident  that  Chateaubriand  was  almost  as  dan- 
gerous and  as  uncomfortable  in  as  out  of  power,  and 
would  be  not  more  loyal  to  Yillele  than  he  had  been  to 
Montmorency.  The  King,  too,  could  not  endure  him. 
After  some  months  of  discomfort,  the  explosion  came. 
The  ]\Iinistry  brought  forward  a  plan  for  converting  the 
five  per  cents  into  three  per  cents,  Avith  Chateaubriand's 
concurrence  in  the  council :  so  at  least  his  colleagues  de- 
clared. But  when  the  measure  came  on  for  discussion  in 
tlie  Chambers,  the  Opposition  was  found  far  stronger  than 
any  one  anticipated.  Chateaubriand,  seeing  this,  sat 
gravely  silent  in  public,  but  "was  open-mouthed  against 
the  scheme  in  private.  Yillele  was  not  a  man  to  put 
up  with  such  behavior.  Chateaubriand  was  summarily 
dismissed,  and   by  an   unlucky  accident,  in  a  manner 


234  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

M'liicli  seemed  both  bnisqiie  and  insulting.  He  received 
liis  covfjr' ()u]y  as  lie  wan  cnleiiMg  the  council-chamber. 
He  retired  I'urious  and  Ijaflled,  not  into  private  life,  but 
into  the  most  virulent  and  vicious  opposition,  to  the  re- 
<^TQt  of  his  l)est  IViends.  For  four  years  he  carried  on, 
chiefly  in  the  columns  of  the  Journal  dcs  Dehats,  an  un- 
relenting war  against  tlie  ]\Iinister  who  had  dismissed 
him,  becoming  in  the  course  of  it  almost  unconsciously 
the  head  of  the  Liberal  opposition.  In  1828  he  tri- 
umphed, and  M.  de  Villele  fell  from  power;  but  Chateau- 
briand did  not  succeed  him.  Charles  X.  liked  him  even 
less  than  Louis  XVIII.  had  done ;  so  vigorous  an  em- 
ployer and  champion  of  the  liberty  of  the  press  was  not 
the  man  to  find  favor  with  the  monarch  who  was  already 
longing  for  the  Ordonnances.  It  was  necessary,  how- 
ever, to  find  some  post  for  so  formidable  and  so  effective 
a  polemist ;  so  the  Ministers  ofi^ered  him  the  embassy  to 
Eome.  He  wished  much  for  this  post,  but  there  was  one 
difficulty  in  the  way.  It  was  held  by  one  of  his  ostensi- 
ble and  most  generous  friends,  the  bosom  friend  also  of 
Mme.  Recamier,  the  Due  de  Laval,  who  had  resided 
there  long,  and  was  by  no  means  willing  to  quit.  Cha- 
teaubriand made  some  decorous  and  deprecatory  hesita- 
tions, as  he  had  done  in  182.3 ;  but  it  was  evident  that 
he  was  bent  on  Eome,  and  Mme.  Eecamier  was  employed 
to  smooth  the  rugged  path.  The  Due  de  Laval  was  the 
more  disinterested  of  the  two ;  he  went  to  Vienna,  and 
Chateaubriand  superseded  one  friend  at  the  Papal  Court, 
as  he  had  before  superseded  another  at  the  Foreign  Office. 
This  proceeding,  which  was  in  harmony  with  the  rest  of 
his  political  career,  was  his  last  act.  The  following  year, 
when  the  Polignac  Ministry  came  into  power,  disgusted 
alike  at  the  men  who  were  nominated  and  at  his  own 
exclusion,  he  sent  in  his  resignation  and  retired. 

We  have  said  little  or  nothing  of  the  priv'ate  and  do- 
mestic life  of  M.  de  Chateaubriand ;  and,  in  truth,  there 
is  not  much  to  say.  He  was  never  genial  or  social ;  he 
hated  both  the  effort  and  the  constraint  of  general  soci- 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  235 


ety,  and,  except  in  a  circle  of  a  few  intimate  adorers,  he 
was  usually  silent,  gloomy,  and  abstracted.  When  he 
talked,  however,  he  talked,  as  might  be  expected,  with 
much  brilliancy.  Among  his  own  sex,  it  is  probable,  no 
eminent  or  attractive  man  had  ever  so  few  friends.  He 
had  too  cold  a  heart,  too  absorbing  an  egotism,  too  irrita- 
ble a  pride,  and  too  biting  a  tongue,  either  to  love  or  be 
loved  much.  In  reference  to  his  relations  with  the  other 
sex,  —  a  subject  which  commonly  fills  so  large  a  space  in 
the  biographies  of  remarkable  Frenchmen, — the  Memoires 
d'outrc  Tombc,  without  being  exactly  honest,  are,  if  we 
except  one  or  two  very  unpleasant  and  imwarrantable 
hints,  decorously  discreet.  We  shall  imitate  that  discre- 
tion ;  though  a  few  words  are  needed  .to  prevent  miscon- 
ception of  Chateaubriand's  character  on  this  point.  Of 
his  long,  pure,  and  honorable  friendship  with  Mme.  Ee- 
camier  the  Souvenirs  of  that  unique  and  admirable  wo- 
man present  a  most  pleasing  picture.  All  his  intimacies, 
however,  —  and  he  had  many,  —  were  neither  so  amiable 
nor  so  irreproachable.  Those  who  knew  him  well  say 
that  he  treated  women,  as  he  treated  everything  else  in 
this  depreciated  world,  with  a  superb  and  commanding 
egotism.  Sought  and  worshipped  by  many  women  of 
the  finest  qualities,  and  exercising  over  them,  when  he 
pleased,  a  singular  and  irresistible  fascination,  he  was  yet 
always  the  tyrant,  never  the  slave.  He  gave  little  and 
exacted  much,  or  rather  he  conceived  that  quality  made 
up  for  quantity,  and  that  the  little  he  gave  was  in  reality 
more  than  all  that  could  be  lavished  on  him  in  return. 
At  the  age  of  sixty-four  he  writes  with  naive  conviction 
to  a  lady  whom  he  invited  to  meet  him  in  Switzer- 
land, "  that  he  would  give  her  more  in  one  day  than 
others  in  long  years  "  ;  and  as,  in  spite  of  this  assurance, 
she  failed  at  the  rendezvous,  he  tells  her,  "  Vous  avez 
perdu  une  partie  de  votre  gloire ;  il  fallait  m'aimer,  ne 
fut-ce  que  par  amour  de  votre  talent  et  I'int^ret  de  votre 
renomm^e."  *  What  he  sought  and  found  in  love  was 
not  the  affection  of  this  or  that  woman  in  particular,  but 
*  Sainte-Beuve,  Causeries,  II.  126. 


236  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

the  flattery  of  his  vanity  and  the  distraction  of  his  ennui, 
—  the  excitement,  the  dreams,  the  stir  of  the  imagina- 
tion, the  momentary  revival  of  old  enchantments,  with- 
out whicli  life  was  to  him  a  desert  and  a  burden.  "We 
should  have  i'ancied  that  he  must  have  been  a  mosl  tor- 
menting and  disappointing  lover  ;  yet  the  ladies  whom 
he  distinguished  never  complained  of  him ;  they  seem  all 
to  have  taken  him  at  his  own  valuation,  and  done  hom- 
age at  his  feet.  Even  Madame  li(^camier,  sought  and 
worshipped  as  she  had  been  all  her  life  by  the  most 
agreeable  and  remarkable  men  of  the  age,  gave  Chateau- 
briand pre-eminence  over  them  all ;  and  though  his  tur- 
bulent, exclusive,  and  exacting  temper  caused  her  at  fir.st 
infinite  vexation  and  distress,  and  once  obliged  her  to  ab- 
sent herself  from  him  and  from  Paris  for  a  time,  yet  she 
could  not  shake  off  the  fascination  ;  it  ended  in  her  for- 
giving him  and  taming  him,  and  devoting  herself  to  him, 
with  a  rare  and  beautiful  fidelity,  through  long  years  of 
decay.  For  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century,  with  occasion- 
al interruptions  by  absence,  he  wrote  to  her  every  morn- 
ing and  visited  her  every  evening ;  and  she  closed  his 
eyes  in  death,  at  the  age  of  eiglity,  when  her  own  had 
been  long  sealed  in  blindness. 

"\Ye  have  now  followed  this  prominent  figure  of  the 
first  half  of  our  centiiry  through  all  the  various  phases 
of  his  existence,  —  as  youthful  wanderer,  literary  celeb- 
rity, minister  and  politician,  husband,  friend,  and  lover ; 
and  a  more  strongly  marked  or  consistently  preserved  in- 
dividuality we  never  met  in  history.  He  was  the  same 
man  at  eighteen  as  at  eighty ;  the  same  in  obscurity  as  in 
fame  ;  the  same  in  politics  as  in  love  ;  never  simple,  never 
natural,  never  true;  absorbingly  selfish,  incurably  aflected ; 
the  wretched  victim  of  insatiable  yearnings  and  eternal 
discontent.  Probably  the  only  thoroughly  sincere  thing 
about  him  was  his  desolate  enmd  and  weariness,  or  rather 
disgust,  of  life.  In  his  earliest  works,  Hcne  and  Zcs 
Natchez,  he  speaks  with  bitter  contempt  of  those  whom 
suffering  and  reflection  "have  not  cured  of  the  mania  for 
existence'  \  eight  years  before  his  death  he  writes  thus: — 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  237 


"  J'ai  fini  de  tout  et  avec  tout :  mes  memoires  sout  acheves. 
Je  ne  fais  rieu  ;  je  ne  crois  plus  ni  a  la  gloire  ni  a  I'avenir,  ni 
au  pouvoir  ni  a  la  liberte,  ni  aux  rois,  ni  aux  peuples.  J'ha- 
bite  seul  uu  gi-and  appartement  oil  je  m'ennuie  et  attends 
vaguenient  je  ne  sais  quoi  que  je  ne  desire  pas  et  qui  ne  vien- 
dra  jamais.  Je  ris  de  moi  en  baillant,  et  je  me  couche  a  neuf 
heures.  J'admire  ma  chatte  qui  va  feire  ses  petits,  et  je  suis 
eternellement  votre  fidele  esclave  ;  sans  travailler,  libre  d'aller 
ou  je  veux,  et  n'allant  nulle  part.  Je  regarde  passer  a  mes 
pieds  ma  derniere  heure." 

As  a  young  man  we  saw  liim  unable  to  fix  upon  any 
path  in  life ;  too  proud,  too  indolent,  and  too  fastidious 
for  any ;  having  no  object  and  no  purpose,  because  he 
himself  bounded  his  own  horizon.  As  a  literary  man, 
the  same  fatal  want  reappears :  he  has  grand  powers, 
grand  thoughts,  grand  conceptions  eA^en,  but  no  mighty 
aim  outside  of  the  gigantic  moi  ;  no  creed  but  his  own 
genius,  no  goal  but  his  own  glory,  no  joy  but  in  his  own 
success.  When  he  enters  the  political  arena,  the  native 
vice  is  still  uppermost,  rampant  as  ever,  and  yet  more 
intolerable,  because  the  stage  is  so  noble  and  the  interests 
are  so  momentous.  In  his  Monarcliie  scion  la  Charte,  he 
intimates  the  personal  ground  on  which  he  so  greatly 
valued  parliamentary  institutions ;  they  offer  a  career 
and  an  interest  to  those  who  have  passed  the  age  of 
pleasure  and  are  satiated  with  literary  fame.  "Was  it 
not,"  he  asks,  "  very  hard  to  be  employed  in  nothing  at 
an  age  when  one  is  fit  for  everything  ?  To-day  the  man- 
ly occupations  which  filled  the  existence  of  a  Eoman, 
and  which  make  the  career  of  an  Englishman  so  noble, 
are  offered  to  us  on  all  sides.  We  need  no  longer  lose 
the  middle  and  tlie  end  of  our  life ;  we  can  now  be  men 
when  we  have  ceased  to  be  youths.  We  can  console  our- 
selves for  the  lost  illusions  of  our  earlier  clays  in  endeavor- 
ing to  become  illustrious  citizens;  we  need  not  fear  time, 
when  one  may  be  rajcuni  par  la  gloire."  Throughout  his 
Memoirs,  whenever  he  speaks  of  his  political  career  his 
mingled  affectation  and  discontent  break  out.  He  re- 
peatedly tells  us  that  "  he  has  no  ambition  "  ;  that  "  there 


238  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

is  no  renown  or  power  on  earth  which  could  tempt  liiin 
to  stoop  for  an  instant  to  pick  it  up  "  ;  *  that  all  minis- 
tries and  embassies  and  political  triumphs  are  "  wretched 
bawbles,"  far  beneath  a  man  like  him  "  qui  de  mon  char 
domine  le  train  de  rois."  "  Que  m'importaient,"  he  ex- 
claims, "pourtant  ces  futiles  miseres,  a  moi  qui  n'ai 
jamais  cru  au  temps  ou  je  vivais,  a  moi  sans  foi  dans  les 
rois,  sans  conviction  a  I'egard  des  peuples,  k  moi  qui  ne 
me  suis  jamais  soucie  de  rien,  excepte  des  songes  !"  All 
this  sounds  something  worse  than  paltry,  when  we  re- 
member that  this  man  —  without  ambition,  without  po- 
litical conviction,  above  all  desire  for  glory,  looking  down 
from  the  height  of  his  fancied  supremacy  on  kings  and 
all  that  kings  could  offer,  wishing  for  nothing  but  repos'e, 
caring  for  nothing  but  dreams  —  is  the  same  Chateau- 
briand who  was  insatiable  in  his  pursuit  of  office ;  im- 
placable towards  those  who  rivalled  him  ;  bitter  against 
those  who  thwarted  or  refused  him ;  restless  and  not 
over-delicate  in  his  intrigues  for  advancement ;  ungener- 
ous, to  say  the  least,  towards  his  friends ;  simply  fero- 
cious towards  his  antagonists ;  savagely  morose  under 
defeat ;  haughty  and  contemptuous  in  success.  His  one 
virtue  as  a  politician  —  and  in  France,  no  doubt,  it  is  a 
great  one  —  was  fidelity  to  his  party  ;  a  party  which  he 
adopted  from  sentiment  and  connection,  without  sharing 
its  principles  or  being  able  to  guide  its  policy. 

Was  his  religion  of  deeper  root  or  purer  alloy  than  his 
patriotism  ?  Was  he  truer  and  less  egotistic  as  a  Chris- 
tian than  as  a  statesman  ?  It  is  difficult,  after  what  we 
have  seen,  to  think  so.  He  patronized  Christianity :  he 
did  not  bow  down  before  it.  He  was  its  appreciator,  not 
its  votary.  He  cared  much  for  its  beauty,  little  for  its 
truth :  lie  valued  it  because  so  closely  associated  with 
his  fame ;  biit,  wdiether  he  really  believed  in  it  or  not, 
assuredly  he  never  regulated  either  his  feelings  by  its 
spirit  or  his  life  by  its  precepts.  Few  men  of  decorous 
life  and  conversation  were  ever  less  imbued  with  the  pe- 
culiar virtues  of  the  Christian  character.     He  chose  the 

*-Memoires,  II.  110,  IV.  273,  I.  148,  III.  401. 


CHATEAUBRIAND.  239 


highest  place  at  feast  and  synagogue ;  he  thought  more 
highly  of  himself  than  he  ought  to  think ;  and  of  the 
spirit  of  meekness,  humility,  and  forgiveness  of  injuries, 
he  had  no  more  notion  than  a  Red  Indian.  He  was,  iu 
truth,  one  of  the  most  unamiable,  as  well  as  one  of  the 
most  unhappy  of  men.  He  really  loved  no  one  but  him- 
self ;  he  heartily  appreciated  no  genius  but  his  own ;  his 
posthumous  Memoirs,  which  he  wrote  with  the  view  of 
raising  a  grand  temple  to  his  own  fame,  are  filled  with 
portraits  of  his  contemporaries,  scarcely  one  of  which  can 
be  called  either  generous  or  cordial,  few  of  which  are 
just,  and  most  of  which  are  snarling,  bitter,  and  malig- 
nant ;  some  of  them,  where  the  originals  had  defeated  or 
eclipsed  him,  being  painted  in  colors  which  transgress 
even  the  bounds  of  decency.  We  may  give  one  exam- 
ple, among  the  worst  no  doubt,  but  still  by  no  means 
unique. 

"  M.  de  Talleyrand,  appele  de  longne  date  au  tribunal  d'en 
haut,  ^tait  contumace  :  la  mort  le  cherchait  de  la  part  de 
Dieu,  et  elle  I'a  enfiu  trouve.  Pour  analyser  minutieusement 
une  vie  aussi  gatee  que  celle  de  M.  de  la  Fayette  a  6t6  saine, 
11  ffxudrait  affronter  des  degouts  que  je  suis  incapable  de  sur- 
monter.  Les  hommes  de  plaies  ressemblent  aux  carcasses  de 
prostituees :  les  ulceres  les  ont  teUement  ronges  qu'ils  ue 
peuvent  servir  a  la  dissection."* 

Talleyrand  also  left  memoirs  behind  him,  but  with  the 
direction  that  they  should  not  be  published  till  fifty 
years  after  his  death.  Chateaubriand's  autobiography, 
assailing  and  blasting  nearly  every  public  and  living  rep- 
utation, was  sold  during  his  lifetime,  and  given  to  the 
world  the  same  year  in  which  he  died. 

A  great  man  Chateaubriand  can  scarcely,  in  any  true 
sense  of  the  word,  be  called ;  his  soul  was  too  much 
eaten  away  by  hollow  affectations  and  puerile  vanities 
for  that.  But  amid  all  his  weaknesses  and  littlenesses  he 
had  the  faculty  of  producing  upon  his  contemporaries  the 
impression  of  grandeur  and  of  strength.  A  great  ivriter 
he  certainly  was ;  and  probably  it  was  his  unrivalled  ca- 

*  Tome  VI.  p.  242. 


240  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

pacity  in  this  line  that  deceived  both  liiniself  and  others 
into  iancying  him  a  thinker  and  a  statesman.  He  offers, 
perhaps,  the  most  remarkable  instance  the  world  ever 
saw  of  the  extent  to  which  the  power  of  style  can  dis- 
guise and  even  supply  the  absence  of  higher  gifts.  We 
cannot  better  conclude  this  long  paper  than  by  a  few  sen- 
tences from  the  pen  of  Albert  de  Broglie. 

"Between  1814  and  1848,  Franco  for  thirty-four  years 
tried  her  hand  at  representative  government.  Three  un- 
fortunate tempers  have  twice  led  to  a  sad  failure  of  the 
trial :  a  general  and  systematic  spirit  of  opposition  to  au- 
thority, extravagance  of  personal  pretensions,  and  the 
bitterness  of  personal  animosities.  Kever  have  these 
three  characteristic  national  features  —  which  render  con- 
stitutional government  almost  impossible  —  appeared  so 
strongly  as  in  M.  de  Chateaubriand.  He  was  an  active 
public  character  for  fifteen  years :  he  opposed  every 
government;  he  put  forth  pretensions  to  every  post; 
and  he  ended  by  hating  everybody." 


M.    DE    TOCQUEVILLE. 

IT  is  a  very  difficult  question  to  decide  at  what  dis- 
tance of  time  after  a  great  man's  death  his  biography- 
should  be  given  to  the  world.  If  it  is  put  forth  at  once, 
as  interest  and  affection  would  naturally  dictate,  while 
the  world  is  yet  ringing  with  his  fame  and  his  friends 
yet  grieving  for  his  loss,  vvlien  every  one  is  eager  to  know 
more  of  a  man  of  whom  they  had  heard  so  much,  the 
sentiments  it  excites  will  be  more  vivid,  and  the  treat- 
ment it  receives  will  be  more  gentle  ;  it  will  be  read 
more  widely,  and  handled  more  tenderly  ;  enndty  will  be 
silenced  and  criticism  softened  by  the  recency  and  the 
sadness  of  the  severance.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  much 
must  be  sacrificed  for  the  sake  of  those  advantages.  If 
the  deceased  has  been  a  statesman,  considerations  of  po- 
litical propriety  compel  silence,  or  only  half-disclosures, 
in  reference  to  transactions  which  perhaps  more  tlian 
most  others  would  throw  light  upon  his  character ;  his 
reasons  for  what  he  did  himself,  and  his  judgments  of 
what  was  done  by  others,  have  often  to  be  suppressed 
out  of  generous  discretion,  or  from  obligations  of  prom- 
ised secrecy ;  and  thus  only  a  mutilated  and  I'ragmentary 
account  of  his  thoughts  and  deeds  can  be  laid  before  the 
public.  Or  if,  without  being  a  politician,  he  has  nlixed 
largely  with  his  fellows,  as  most  great  men  must  have 
done,  —  if  he  has  lived  intimately  with  the  celebrated 
and  the  powerful,  and  poured  out  in  unreserved  corre- 
spondence with  his-  friends  his  estimates  of  the  characters 
and  actions  of  those  whom  he  has  known  and  watched, 
—  and  if  his  abilities  and  opportunities  rendered  these 
estimates  of  -  singular  interest  and  value,  —  we  are 
11  p 


242  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

doomed  to  a  still  severer  disappointment.  For  tliese, 
^vllich  are  precisely  the  thinf^s  we  most  desire  to  learn, 
and  for  M'liich  we  should  most  treasure  liis  bioj^'rajiliy, 
are  precisely  the  things  which  must  be  withheld.  His 
contemporaries  and  associates,  the  objects  of  his  iree 
criticism,  and  it  may  be  of  his  severe  judicial  condemna- 
tion, are  still  living ;  their  characters  must  be  spared,  and 
their  feelings  must  be  respected  ;  the  work  must  be  gar- 
bled and  impoverished  by  asterisks  and  omissions,  and 
all  the  richest  and  most  piquant  poitions  of  it  must  be 
postponed  to  a  more  distant  day.  If,  in  order  to  avoid 
these  inconvenient  and  enforced  discretions,  the  p\iblica- 
tion  of  the  life  be  delayed  till  the  generation  to  which  it 
helonged  has  passed  away,  the  necessity  for  suppression 
will  be  escaped,  but  half  the  interest  in  the  subject  will 
have  died  out.  The  man,  unless  he  belonged  to  the  very 
first  order  of  great  men,  will  have  become  one  of  the  or- 
dinary figures  of  history  ;  his  memory  may  still  be  cher- 
ished by  many,  but  his  name  will  no  longer  be  in  every 
month.  The  delineation  of  his  character  may  be  incom- 
parably more  complete  and  perfect  than  it  could  have 
been  at  an  earlier  period,  but  comparatively  few  will  care 
to  read  it;  it  may  be  infinitely  more  instructive,  but  it 
can  never  be  half  as  interesting,  for  those  who  would 
especially  have  drawn  interest  and  instruction  from  its 
pages  are  gone  where  all  biography  is  needless.  If  the 
subject  of  the  narrative  were  a  public  man,  his  life  may 
still  furnish  valuable  materials  for  the  history  of  his 
times ;  if  he  were  a  great  thinker,  or  philosopher,  or  dis- 
coverer, the  details  of  his  mental  formation  and  opera- 
tions may  throw  much  interesting  light  upon  psychology 
and  morals;  but  if  he  were  only,  or  mainly,  a  good  man 
or  a  social  celebrity,  it  is  often  hard  to  see  why,  after  so 
many  years,  any  account  of  liim  should  be  given  to  the 
world  at  all. 

But  these  are  not  the  only  doubtful  questions  which 
those  who  contemplate  biography  have  to  consider.  It 
is  not  easy  to  decide  who  would  be  the  fittest  person  to 
undertake  the  delineation  of  the  character  and  the  nar- 


M.   DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  243 

ration  of  the  career,  —  a  widow,  a  son,  or  a  brother,  or  a 
bosom  friend,  or  an  unconnected  literary  man,  capable 
of  full  appreciation,  but  not  disturbed  by  too  vivid 
sympathies.  The  family  of  the  deceased  may  of  course 
be  expected  to  know  him  more  thoroughly  than  any 
mere  acqiraintance  could  do  ;  they  have  watched  him  more 
closely  and  more  continuously  ;  they  alone  have  seen  him 
in  his  most  unbent  and  therefore  most  natural,  though 
not  perhaps  his  best,  moments ;  they,  more  than  others, 
can  tell  what  he  was  in  those  private  relations  of  life 
which  usually,  but  not  always,  afford  the  clearest  insight 
into  the  inner  nature  of  the  man.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  they  will  seldom  have  known  him  in  his  younger 
days,  —  his  widow  rarely,  his  son  never ;  they  will  gener- 
ally be  withheld  by  reverence  from  any  keen  critical 
judgment  of  his  attributes  or  actions ;  or,  if  not,  their 
criticism  will  carry  with  it  a  semblance  of  unseemliness, 
and  they  will  scarcely  be  able  to  estimate  rightly  the  real 
space  which  he  filled  in  the  world's  eye,  the  particular 
points  which  the  world  will  wish  to  hear,  and  the  degree 
and  kind  of  detail  which  it  will  bear.  They  will  be  apt  to 
fall  both  into  indiscriminate  and  excessive  eulogy,  and  into 
voluminous  and  wearisome  minuteness.  A  very  intimate 
and  attached  friend,  especially  if  he  be  not  also  a  man  of 
the  world,  will  be  exposed  to  many  of  the  same  dangers, 
though  in  a  less  dcijjree.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the  ma- 
terials  are  put  into  the  hands  of  a  professional  writer, 
well  chosen  and  really  competent  by  comprehension  and 
just  appreciation  to  treat  the  subject,  the  probability  is 
that  he  will  give  the  public  what  it  wants  to  know,  and 
will  bestow  that  righteous  and  measured  admiration 
which  the  general  judgment  can  ratil'y  ;  but  it  is  certain 
that  he  will  never  satisfy  the  family,  who  will  be  pretty 
sure  to  condemn  him  as  unsympatliizing,  critical,  and 
cold. 

Again :  how,  and  on  what  principle,  is  the  biographer 
to  hold  a  fair  balance  between  what  is  due  to  his  readers 
and  what  is  due  to  his  hero  ?  The  real  value  of  a  biog- 
raphy consists  in  its  fidelity,  fulness,  and  graphic  truth  ; 


244  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

in  displaying  the  cliaracter  in  all  its  weaknesses  as  in 
all  its  strength  ;  in  glossing  over  nothing,  and  ])ainting 
nothing  in  false  colors  ;  in  concealing  nothing  and  distort- 
ing nothing  which  can  render  the  picture  genuine  as  an 
honest  delineation,  or  useful  as  a  moral  lesson,  or  instruc- 
tive as  a  mental  study.  If,  out  of  regaixl  to  the  fame  of 
the  deceased,  or  the  feelings  of  his  family,  events  or  ma- 
terials are  suppressed  by  which  admirers  are  deceived  as 
to  their  estimate,  or  psychologists  misled  in  their  iihilo- 
sophical  inferences,  integrity  has  heen  violated,  and  mis- 
chief has  been  done.  The  very  facts  concealed  maybe 
precisely  those  which  would  have  explained  the  origin  of 
perplexing  anomalies  in  the  character,  and  have  thrown 
a  luminous  clearness  on  the  dark  places  of  metaphysic 
science.  A  "  Life  "  that  is  not  scrupulously  faithful  is  a 
narrative  only,  not  a  Biography,  and  fails  of  its  highest 
purpose  as  well  as  of  its  implied  ])romise.  An  analogous 
moral  question  relates  to  the  discretion  which  the  biogra- 
pher is  called  upon  to  exercise  as  to  the  literary  reputa- 
tion of  his  friend.  Here,  as  in  the  points  first  referred  to, 
he  has  to  discharge  tacit  engagements  to  two  parties,  whose 
respective  claims  he  must  reconcile.  In  determining 
what  remains  he  shall  give  to  the  public,  is  he  to  con- 
sider first  and  mainly  what  will  elucidate  the  writer's 
character,  or  wliat  will  enhance  or  confirm  the  writer's 
fame,  or  what  will  be  interesting  and  useful  to  the  world  ? 
Is  he  to  withhold  what  is  eminently  distinctive,  and 
what  would  be  eminently  impressive  and  instructive, 
because  it  had  not  received  the  last  perfection  which  the 
author,  had  he  lived,  would  have  been  careful  to  bestow 
upon  it,  and  because  in  comparison  Avith  his  otlier  writ- 
ings it  would  have  seemed  unfinished  and  undressed ; 
pleading  that  his  friend  set  special  store  on  the  polish 
and  form  of  his  productions  ?  In  a  word,  is  he  to  be 
guided  by  the  principles  which  would  have  actuated  the 
writer  himself  while  upon  earth,  or  by  those  purer  and 
more  unselfish  considerations  which  may  be  presuiued  to 
animate  him  now  1 
These  various  questions  M.  de  Beaumont,  in  his  "Life  and 


il.   DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  245 

Eemains  of  Alexis  cle  Tocqueville,"  *  has  had  to  deal  with 
and  decide;  and,  with  the  exception  of  the  last,  we  think 
he  has  solved  them  rightly.  A  close  and  loving  intimacy 
with  his  friend  for  move  than  thirty  years  ;  association 
with  him  both  in  literary  labors  and  in  public  life; 
a  position  which  enabled  him  to  know  thoroughly  what 
Tocqueville  was  in  domestic  intercourse,  and  what  he 
was  thought  to  be  in  the  world ;  a  superiority  of  mind 
which  qualified  him  fully  to  corajDrehend  and  analyze 
that  rich  nature,  combined  with  a  tried  and  proved 
affection  wdiich  made  it  easy  for  him  to  criticize  and 
judge  without  incurring  tlie  faintest  suspicion  of  a  cold 
or  depreciating  temper,  —  rendered  him  unquestionably 
the  fittest  person  that  could  have  been  selected  for  the 
task  he  has  performed  so  well.  The  "  Notice  "  which  he 
has  prefixed  to  the  correspondence  and  unpublished  re- 
mains has  few  faults  except  its  brevity.  It  is  simple, 
succinct,  and  clear ;  it  gives  a  sufficient  outline  of  tlie 
principal  events  in  Tocqueville's  somewhat  uneventful 
life,  with  the  exception  of  his  political  career,  of  which 
it  would  perhaps  be  difficult  at  present  to  speak  fully 
and  boldly,  and  of  which  it  certainly  would  not  answer  to 
speak  timidly  or  obscurely ;  and  it  thoroughly  displays, 
and  makes  intelligible,  a  character  of  unusual  beauty, 
subtlety,  and  delicacy.  In  this,  which  appears,  to  have 
been  the  biographer's  single  and  steadfast  aim,  we  think 
he  has  perfectly  succeeded.  It  is  impossible  to  lay  down 
the  "  Life  "  without  feeling  that  you  hioiv  the  man. 

The  only  ground  on  which  we  feel  disposed  to  join  is- 
sue with  M.  de  Beaumont  has  reference  to  the  literary 
remains  which  he  has  loithhcld.  We  fully  admit  that  the 
gallery  of  portraits  of  the  public  men  with  whom  Toc- 
queville acted,  or  whom  he  closely  watched,  and  Avhich 
we  are  delighted  to  hear  is  in  a  sufficiently  completed 
state  for  eventual  publication,  could  not,  without  inde- 
corum and  unkindness,  be  given  to  the  world  during  the 
lifetime   of  his  more  notable  contemporaries.     It  w^as, 

*  CEuvres  et  Correspondance  inedites  d'Alexis  de  Tocqueville,  pre- 
cedees  d'une  Notice  par  Gustave  de  Beaumont.     2  vols.     Paris,  1861. 


246  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

moreover,  Lis  own  special  injunction  tliat  the  publication 
of  those  "  Souvenirs  "  should  he  delayed  till  the  passing 
generation  should,  like  hiniscli",  have  gone  to  rest.  We 
can  even  understand  and  respect,  tliough  inclined  to  re- 
gret, the  motives  which  are  assigned  for  the  Liographer's 
entire  silence  as  to  Tocqueville's  speeches  and  proceed- 
ings during  the  ten  years  previous  to  1848,  when  he  was 
an  active  member  of  the  Chamber,  though  some  of  those 
speeches  were  singularly  interesting,  and  all  those  pro- 
ceedings did  honor  to  the  actor.  But  he  usually  opposed, 
and  often  with  earnestness  and  severity,  those  ministers 
who,  as  leaders  of  the  old  Constitutional  party,  are  now, 
along  with  his  own  more  immediate  friends,  involved  in 
one  common  proscription  ;  and  the  circumstances  Avere 
inopportune  for  what  M'ould  have  looked  like  a  posthu- 
mous attack.  It  may  even  have  been  right  to  suppress 
the  memoir  which  Tocqiieville  had  prepared  on  the  In- 
dian Empire,  though  it  must  have  been  full  of  interest 
and  suggestive  value  ;  since  the  author  had  himself  ap- 
pended a  note  to  the  MS.  to  the  effect  that  the  work 
would  only  be  worth  publishing  in  the  event  of  his  being 
able  to  resume  and  terminate  the  needful  researches. 
But  we  cannot  acknowledge  the  validity  of  the  reasoning 
which  has  decided  M.  de  Beaumont  to  withhold  from  us 
those  portions  of  the  second  volume  of  L'Ancicn  Eeyime 
et  la  Bevohdion,  which  he  himself  describes  as  nearly,  if 
not  quite,  finished.*  He  tells  us. that  the  volume  Mas 
within  a  few  months  of  its  completion ;  that  the  order 
of  the  chapters  and  the  sequence  of  the  ideas  were  ar- 
ranged from  first  to  last ;  that  some  chapters  were  not 
only  entirely  written,  but  had  received  the  last  touch  of 
the  master's  hand  ;  and  that,  by  collating  those  materials, 
and  adding  here  and  there  a  page  or  two,  here  and  there 
only  a  word  or  two,  a  volume  might  have  been  legiti- 
mately given  to  the  public.  He  tells  us  further  that  the 
notes  and  documents  which  were  to  furnish  Tocqueville's 
materials,  all  written  by  his  own  hand,  are  "  an  immense 
arsenal  of  ideas  " ;  that  from  some  of  these  notes  alone 

*  These  have  since  been  published. 


M.    DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  247 

Other  authors  might  draw  the  substance  for  whole  vol- 
umes ;  and  that  scmie  of  the  preparatory  "  studies  "  — 
such  as  tiiose  on  Tur^-ot,  on  the  JStates-Geueral,  on  En^-- 
land,  and  on  some  German  publicists — sont  autant 
d'ouvrojjcs  tout  fails.  Yet  he  has  decided,  irrevocably  he 
says,  that  all  this  vast  intellectual  wealtli,  all  this  knowl- 
edge which  the  prolonged  and  patient  industry  of  his 
friend  had  brought  together,  all  this  treasure-chamber  of 
political  sagacity,  shall  be  sealed  to  the  public  now  and 
forever ! 

The  reasons  given  for  this  decision  may  be  satisfactory 
to  a  Freacliman,  but  scarcely  to  an  Englishman.  "We 
take  leave  to  doubt  whether  they  would  have  appeared 
satisfactory  to  the  philosoplier  himself.  All  this  invalu- 
able matter,  which  Tocqueville  had  collected  and  digested 
for  the  enlightenment  of  the  Avorld,  the  world  is  to  be 
denied  access  to;  —  and  why?  Because  it  would  be 
"profanation  to  mingle  an  inferior  style  with  the  product 
of  that  glorious  pencil,"  and  inflict  upon  the  author  the 
responsibility  of  the  faults  and  feebleness  of  his  editor 
and  continuator.  In  the  first  place  we  would  not  have 
advised,  and  we  are  sure  M.  de  Beaumont  would  liave  had 
far  too  much  skill  and  taste  to  commit  the  error  of  such 
intermixture.  What  was  fragmentary  we  would  liave 
given  as  a  fragment,  not  cooked  up  into  a  finished  article. 
Tocqueville  was  so  precise  a  tliinker,  and  so  minute  an 
investigator,  that  his  detached  pc72^ec5  and  ineces  justifica- 
tives  would  have  had  more  value,  would  have  been  more 
profound  and  suggestive,  than  the  most  maturely  elabo- 
rated productions  of  almost  any  otlier  man.  We  should 
have  valued  them  as  "  remains,"  and  should  never  have 
fallen  into  the  ungenerous  blunder  of  judging  them  as 
finished  performances.  And  in  the  second  place,  if  we 
had  so  judged  them,  where  would  have  been  the  harm  ? 
We  should  have  been  conscious  of  the  casual  imperfec- 
tion while  cherishing  and  admiring  the  inestimable  jewel. 
The  literary  fame  of  so  unrivalled  a  master  of  style  as 
the  author  of  the  Ancicn  R&jimc  could  not  have  suffered 
in  the  e^^es  of  any,  because  it  was  discovered  that  his 


248  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

condensed  and  pregnant  phrases  were  not  the  first  form 
that  the  thought  liad  assumed  in  his  mind.  And  even  if 
it  had  so  sul'i'ered  in  tlie  fancy  of  some  thoughtless  reader, 
we  say,  what  tlien?  Is  literary  renown  or  public  useful- 
ness the  weightier  consideration  ?  Is  the  first  and  para- 
mount purpose  of  the  statesujan  and  the  philosopliic 
patriot,  in  handling  these  grave  matters,  to  enhance  his 
■own  reputation  for  genius  and  profundity,  or  to  warn  his 
countrymen  from  the  errors  pf  the  ]mst,  of  the  perils 
wliich  await  them  in  the  future  ?  Above  all,  what  was 
Tocqueville's  own  estimate  of  these  things  ?  M.  de 
Beaumont  says  :  "  Tocqueville  ne  comprenait  une  publi- 
cation q\ia  la  condition  cfun  accroisscmcnt  de  r/loirepour 
son  auteur :  il  n'admettait  pas  qu'on  fit  un  livre  pour 
faire  un  livre."  We  believe  that  in  saying  this  he  has 
been  gviilty  of  great  injustice  to  the  high  and  unselfish 
nature  of  his  friend.  No  doubt  Tocqueville  was  about 
the  last  man  to  sit  down  to  write  a  book  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  book-making,  though  he  himself  often  tells 
ITS  that  one  of  the  most  effective  causes  that  goaded  him 
into  literary  activity  was  his  incurable  discontent  and  un- 
rest whenever  he  had  no  great  object  of  study  and  of 
work  on  hand.  No  doubt,  too,  he  had  too  much  of  the 
genuine  spirit  and  conscience  of  the  artist  to  be  content 
to  turn  out  of  his  studio  any  piece  of  workmanship  Mdiich 
fell  below  his  severe  standard  of  attainable  perfection; 
and  too  sincere  a  respect  for  his  readers  to  cast  his 
thoughts  before  them  in  any  but  the  most  becoming 
dress  and  the  most  decorous  attitude ;  and,  more  than  all, 
too  deep  a  sense  of  what  was  due  to  the  great  question 
he  was  investigating,  and  the  pregnant  principles  he  was 
laboring  to  elicit  and  enforce,  not  to  spend  his  utmost 
strength  to  clothe  them  in  the  fittest  words,  and  to  give 
them  forth  in  the  most  digested,  polished,  and  effective 
shape.  A  slovenly  sentence  or  a  slipshod  thought  was 
equally  his  aversion :  deiv  dpiareveiv  was  his  desire  in 
every  page  he  wrote,  —  scarcely  vireipoKov  efifxevai  aWwv. 
At  least  we  are  sure  that,  though  an  accroisscmcnt  de  yloire 
from  each  new  volume  was  far  from  indifferent  to  him, 


M.   DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  249 

as  proving  that  he  had  done  his  work  well,  and  so  far 
succeeded  in  his  aim,  yet  it  was  by  no  means  his  actu- 
ating motive  nor  his  prevailing  and  inspiring  thought. 
He  was  an  earnest  and  enthusiastic  patriot,  saddened  to 
the  very  soul  by  tlie  discreditable  present  and  the  gloomy 
future  of  his  country,  yet  grieving  less  over  her  degra- 
dation than  over  the  moral  deficiencies  and  faults  to 
which  that  degradation  %vas  attributable,  and  which, 
if  not  cured,  would  go  far  to  insure  its  hopeless  perma- 
nence; he  saw  that  the  roots  of  all  that  he  deplored  lay 
deep  in  the  antecedent  history  and  in  the  inherent  nature 
of  thfe  people  ;  he  was  bent  upon  penetrating  to  the  very 
inner  spirit  and  meaning  of  the  Eevolution,  the  causes  to 
which  it  owed  both  its  existence  and  its  special  features, 
and  the  enduring  consequences  it  had  left  behind ;  and 
he  M-as  sanguine  in  his  hopes  that  in  a  thorough  compre- 
hension of  these  things  might  be  discovered  some  guid- 
ing light,  by  means  of  wdiicli  what  was  good  in  that 
mighty  movement  could  be  maintained  and  made  pro- 
ductive, and  what  was  evil  modified  and  controlled.  To 
this  great  work  he  resolved  to  devote  those  dark  years  of 
France's  annals  which  condemned  him,  in  common  with 
all  nobler  and  purer  politicians,  to  retirement ;  and  how, 
then,  can  we  agree  that  any  contribution  towards  its 
accomplishment  which  he  had  prepared  ought  to  be 
suppressed  merely  out  of  deference  to  his  credit  as  a 
consummate  writer  ?  We  cannot  believe  that  such  con- 
siderations would  have  decided  him  while  on  earth ;  we 
are  sure  they  will  not  influence  him  now. 

However,  it  would  be  too  much  to  hope  that  any  argu- 
ments of  ours  can  now  influence  ]\I.  de  Beaumont  to  re- 
consider his  decision  on  these  points ;  though  our  regret 
is  enhanced  by  the  specimen  he  has  given  us  to  sliow 
what  the  work  would  have  been  had  Tocqueville  lived  to 
complete  it.  L'Anclcn  Regime  et  la  Revolution  is,  in  pur 
judgment,  a  far  maturer  and  profounder  work  than  the 
Democratic  en  Ame'ricpic,  deeper  in  its  insight,  graver  in 
its  tone,  soberer,  simpler,  and  chaster  in  its  style ;  and 
the  two  chapters  now  published,  wliich  would  have 
11* 


250  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

formed  part  of  the  second  volume  of  tlie  JRe'vohdion 
show  an  advance  even  on  the  first-named  l)Ook  in  hicid- 
ity  and  in  mastery  of  grasp.  They  are  entitled  respect- 
ively, "  Comment  la  Rcpublique  etait  prete  a  trouver  im 
maitre,"  and  "  Comment  la  natiorl,  en  cessant  d'etre  r^- 
publicaine,  (5tait  restee  rdvolutionnaire";  and  they  depict, 
with  a  force  and  clearness  which  we  never  saw  approaclied 
elsewhere,  the  profound  lassitude,  discouragement,  and 
disenchantment  which  made  the  coup  d'etat  of  the  18tli 
of  Brumaire  so  easy  and  so  welcome. 

We  wish  our  space,  would  permit  us  to  give  an  analysis 
of  these  two  admirable  fragments,  —  if,  indeed,  anything 
so  condensed  is  capable  of  analysis.  But  we  can  only 
find  space  for  one  paragraph,  —  the  conclusion  of  the 
first  chapter:  — 

"  Quelque  habitue  que  Ton  doive  etre  k  la  mobility  incon- 
seqiiente  des  hommes,  11  setnble  permis  de  s'etonner  en  vovant 
uu  si  grand  changement  dans  les  dispositions  morales  d'un 
penple  :  tant  d'egoisme  succ^dant  a  tant  de  devouement,  tant 
d'indifFerence  a  tant  de  passion,  tant  de  peur  a  tant  triiero- 
isme,  un  si  grand  mepris  pour  ce  qui  avait  ete  I'objet  de 
si  violents  d^sirs,  et  qui  avait  coute  si  clier.  II  faut  re- 
noncer  a  expliquer  un  changement  aussi  coniplet  et  aussi 
prompt  par  les  lois  habituelles  du  monde  moral.  Le  naturel 
de  notre  nation  est  si  particulier  que  I'etude  generale  de 
Thumanite  ne  suffit  pas  pour  le  comprendre  ;  elle  surprend 
sans  cesse  ceux  meme  qui  se  sont  appliques  a  I'etudier  a  part : 
nation  mieux  douee  qu'aucune  autre  pour  comprendre  sans 
peine  les  choses  extraordinaires  et  s'y  porter ;  capable  de 
toutes  celles  qui  n'exigent  qu'im  seul  effort,  quelque  gi'and 
qu'il  puisse  etre,  mais  hors  d'etat  de  se  tenir  longtemps  tres 
haut,  parcequ'elle  7i'a  Jamais  que  des  sensatioiis  et  point  de 
principes ;  et  que  ses  instincts  valent  toujours  mieux  que  sa 
morale;  pcuple  civilise  enti'e  tons  les  peuples  civilises  de  la 
terre,  et  cependant,  sous  certains  rapports,  reste  plus  pr^s  de 
I'etat  sauvage  qu'aucun  d'eutre  eux  ;  car  le  propre  des  sau- 
vages  est  de  se  decider  par  I'impression  soudaine  du  moment, 
sans  memoire  du  passe  et  sans  idee  de  I'avenir." 

The  events  of  Tocqueville's  life  were  neither  many  nor 
remarkable.    He  was  the  youngest  son  of  an  ancient  and 


M.   DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  251 

nolile  family  of  Normandy ;  his  raothei*  was  the  grand- 
daughter of  Malesherbes,  and  his  father,  himself  a  liter- 
ary man  of  some  pretensions,  was  at  one  time  Prefect  of 
Versailles,  and  Peer  of  Fmnce.  Alexis  received  but  an 
imperfect  education,  embraced  the  judicial  career,  and 
at  the  age  of  twenty-two  was  appointed  Jugc-auditeur, 
or  Assiessor  to  the  Court  of  Justice  of  Versailles,  —  a  post 
which  he  held  for  five  years,  and  then  resigned  in  con- 
sequence of  the  dismissal'  of  his  intimate  friend,  M.  de 
Beaumont.  Charged  by  the  French  government  to  in- 
vestigate the  penitentiary  system  of  the  United  States, 
he  sailed  to  America  in  company  with  this  same  friend 
in  1831 ;  and  on  his  return,  after  presenting  his  official 
report  to  the  authorities,  devoted  himself  for  some  years 
to  the  preparation  of  his  great  work  on  the  American 
Democracy.  The  first  part  of  this  book,  which  at  once 
made  him  famous  and  placed  him  in  the  very  first  rank 
of  political  writers,  appeared  in  1835,  and  the  second  in 
1810.  In  1835  he  married  an  English  lady,  than  whom 
no  one  in  mind  and  character  could  have  been  more 
worthy  to  be  his  companion  through  life ;  and  in  1841 
he  was  elected  to  the  Academie  Frangaisc.  In  1839  he 
was  chosen  deputy  for  Valognes,  and  remained  a  member 
of  all  the  successive  Chambers  till  the  coiq)  d'etat  in  1851. 
He  felt  immense  interest  in  all  parliamentary  struggles, 
and  took  part  in  them  so  i'ar  as  his  health  permitted,  but 
found  liimself  obliged  always  to  act  with  the  liberal 
opposition.  He  lelt  painfully  and  indignantly  that  the 
naiTow  electoral  basis  on  which  the  Chambers  rested 
precluded  the  great  body  of  the  nation  not  only  from 
exercising  any  legitimate  influence  on  political  proceed- 
ings, but  from  feeliiig  any  vivid  interest  in  them  ;  while 
the  trivial  and  unworthy  ])arty  conliicts  which  made  up 
the  chief  portion  of  the  parliamentary  annals  of  that  time 
taught  the  people  to  regard  tliat  arena  as  a  mere  stage 
for  the  display  of  personal  ambition.  To  Louis  Philippe 
in  the  first  place,  and  to  Guizot  and  Thiers  in  the  second, 
to  the  disgust  created  Ity  the  corruption  of  the  one  and 
the  squabbles  of  the  other,  he  attributed  both  the  Eev- 


252  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

olution  of  1848  and  tlic  discredit  -svliich  overshadowed 
constitutional  government  in  France.  In  a  letter  to  Mr. 
W.  It.  Greg,  dated  1853,  lie  says:  — 

"  The  electoral  system  of  the  Constitutional  Monarchy  hnd 
one  ctiormous  vice,  which,  in  my  judgment,  was  the  principal 
cause  of  tlie  fall  of  that  monarchy;  it  rested  on  too  small  a 
body  of  electors  (there  were  about  240,000).  The  result  was, 
that  the  electoral  body  soon  became  nothing  but  a  small 
bourgeois  oligarchy  preoccupied  with  its  special  interests,  and 
separated  from  the  people,  whom  rt  neither  considered  nor 
was  considered  by.  The  people,  therefore,  ceased  to  have  the 
sligiitest  sympathy  with  its  proceedings;  while  the  ancient 
upper  classes,  whom  it  jealously  kept  out  of  the  administra- 
tion, despised  it,  and  impatiently  endured  its  exclusive  su- 
premacy. Nearly  the  whole  nation  was  thus  led  to  regard 
the  representative  system  as  a  mere  political  contrivance 
for  giving  predominance  to  certain  individual  interests,  and 
placing  power  in  the  hands  of  a  small  number  of  families,  — 
an  opinion  far  from  correct  even  then,  but  favoring,  more 
than  any  other  cause,  the  advent  of  a  new  government." 

M.  de  Tocqueville  did  not  speak  often  in  tlie  Chamber, 
for  his  voice  was  feeble,  and  the  form  in  Avhich  he  in- 
stinctively clothed  his  sentiments  was  philosophic  rather 
than  rhetorical,  and  was  too  terse  and  polished  to  be  as 
effective  as  the  matter  of  them  deserved  ;  but  whenever 
he  did  appear  in  the  tribune,  he  always  excited  interest ; 
and  one  of  his  speeches,  delivered  just  three  weeks  be- 
fore the  catastrophe  of  February,  1848,  created  an  ex- 
traordinary sensation.  He  warned  his  audience,  with  all 
the  earnestness  of  prophetic  insight,  that  they  were  on 
the  eve  of  a  most  formidable  revolution  ;  that,  notwith- 
standing the  absence  of  emcutcs  and  street  disturbances, 
a  profound  perturbation  agitated  men's  minds  to  their 
inmost  depths  ;  that  the  passions  which  would  predomi- 
nate in  the  coming  outbreak  would  be  social  rather  than 
])olitical,  and  would  assail  society  itself  more  than  par- 
ticular governments  and  laws  ;  and  that  the  worst  danger 
of  the  volcano  on  which  they  were  sleejiing  consisted  in 
the  contcvvpt  felt  by  the  lower  classes  for  those  above 


M.   DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  253 

them,  as  unworthy  and  incapable  at  once.  The  Chamber 
protested  against  such  conchisions ;  but  in  less  than  a 
month  came  the  Republic,  and  in  four  months  the  iVight- 
ful  and  sanguinary  struggle  in  the  streets  of  Paris.* 

When  the  revolution  which  he  had  predicted  with 
such  a  rare  sagacity  broke  out,  he  prepared  himself  to  do 
his  duty  to  his  country  in  that  perplexing  crisis  with  a 
courage  and  a  clearness  of  vision  still  more  unique  and 
admirable.  He  saw  that  society  and  liberty  as  well  as 
government  were  in  danger ;  he  had  little  faith  in  a  re- 
piiblic,  and  little  sympathy  M'ith  the  sort  of  men  with 
whom  republican  institutions  would  infallibly  mix  him 
up  ;  and  he  had  no  sanguine  hopes  that  it  would  be  pos- 
sible to  steer  France  through  the  perils  she  had  conjured 
up  around  her.  But  he  felt  that  it  would  not  be  the 
part  of  a  good  citizen  or  an  honorable  man  to  desert  the 
helm  because  the  sea  was  stormy,  or  the  vessel  damaged, 
or  the  crew  dirty  or  disreputable ;  ha  was  convinced  that 
the  only  chance  for  liberty  and  order  lay  in  making  the 
Eepublic  tvork,  if  it  were  possible  to  do  so  ;  and  for  this 
object,  therefore,  he  sacrificed  many  of  his  own  tastes 
and  submitted  to  the  defeat  of  many  of  his  predilections 
and  opinions.  He  sat  in  both  the  Constituent  and  the 
National  Assemblies,  and  took  an  active  part  in  framing 
the  new  and  short-lived  constitution.  His  opinion  was 
to  the  last,  that,  if  they  had  had  fair  play,  there  was  wis- 
dom and  sober  patriotism  in  those  two  Assemblies  to 
have  managed  the  political  machine.  In  the  letter  from 
which  we  have  already  quoted  he  bears  the  following  re- 

*  Not  long  before,  he  had  written  to  M.  de  Corcelle  from  his  country- 
house  in  Normandy  :  "1  find  this  country  without  political  excitement, 
but  in  a  most  formidable  moral  condition.  "We  may  perhaps  not  be  close 
upon  a  revolution,  but  assuredly  it  is  thus  that  revolutions  are  prejiared. 
The  effect  produced  by  Cubieres'  trial  is  immense.  The  horrible  affair, 
too,  which  has  filled  every  mind  for  the  last  week  (the  murder  of  the 
Duchess  and  the  suicide  of  the  Duke  de  Choiseul  Praslin),  is  of  a  charac- 
ter to  create  an  undefined  terror  and  a  profound  uneasiness.  I  confess 
it  does  so  with  me.  I  never  heard  of  a  crime  which  has  shocked  me 
more  from  its  indications  as  to  man  in  general  and  the  humanity  of  our 
day.  What  disturbance  in  the  consciences  of  men  does  not  sucli  a  deed 
proclaim  !  How  it  shows  the  moral  ruin  which  successive  revolutions 
have  produced  ! " 


25i  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

niarkablc  testimony  to  the  working  of  universal  suffra^'e, 
when  perfectly  free  and  genuine  :  — 

"  It  must  be  admitted  that  the  two  general  elections  con- 
ducted under  this  system  were  the  most  honest  and  inifet- 
tered  that  have  been  seen  in  France  since  1789.  Iheie  wr-s 
}icither  corruption  nor  intimidation  of  any  kind.  Intimirla- 
tion  was  indeed  attempted  by  llic  govciT.mcnt,  and  by  differ- 
ent factions,  but  without  success.  The  great  number  of  the 
electors,  and  especially  their  collection  in  great  masses  in  the 
electoral  colleges,  rendered  the  action  of  the  government  n\)- 
solutely  unfclt.  On  the  contrary,  the  system  restored,  in 
most  provinces,  to  the  clergy  and  the  rich  proprietors  m<ire 
political  influence  than  they  had  possessed  for  sixty  years, 
and  they  nowhere  abused  it.  This  became  ajparent  when 
the  genuineness  of  the  contested  returns  tame  to  be  dis- 
cussed in  the  Assembly.  It  was  unanirnor.sly  recognized 
that  the  influence  of  the  clergy  and  the  ^rcat  land-owners  l.:.d 
been  consideial)le.  But  there  was  scarcely  a  sirgle  complaint 
of  the  peasants  having  been  cither  bullied  or  liibed  ; — the 
truth  being,  that,  in  a  corntry  where  wealth  is  as  much  (h's- 
tributed  as  in  France,  intimidation  or  corrupticn  1  y  individvah 
can  never  be  pushed  very  far  under  any  electoral  system. 
The  influence,  therefore,  which  was  exercised  over  the  peasant 
by  the  rich  proprietor  was  entirely  a  moral  one.  The  jjcasrint, 
himself  a  proprietor,  and  alaimed  for  his  pn  perty  by  the  doc- 
trines of  the  communists,  applied  for  guidance  to  men  who 
were  more  enlightened  than  himself,  and  bad  still  larger  pro- 
prietary interests  at  stake.  I  cannot  say  that  this  would 
have  always  continued  to  be  the  case.  I  merely  state  the 
facts  I  witnessed  ;  and  I  affirm  that  tlie  Conservative  major- 
ity which  predominated,  first  in  the  Constituent  and  then  in 
the  National  Assembh-,  contained  more  rich  and  independent 
lantled  proprietors,  more  of  what  you  in  Fngland  term  country 
gentlemen,  than  any  Chamber  in  which  I  have  sat." 

In  June,  1849,  Tocqueville  consented  to  accept  the 
portfolio  of  Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs.  He  retained  it 
only  five  montlis,  when  his  disapproval  of  a  step  taken 
by  the  President  on  the  31st  October  compelled  him  to 
resign.  But  during  his  period  of  office  occurred,  we 
grieve  to  say,  the  expedition  to  l\oine,  and,  we  are  glad 
to  say,  the  support   given   in  conjunction  with    Great 


M.   DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  255 

Britain  to  Turkey  in  her  resistance  to  the  infamous  de- 
mands of  Austria  and  Eussia  for  the  extradition  of  tlie 
Hungarian  refugees.  From  tlie  time  when  Tocqueville 
left  the  Ministry  till  the  coup  cVetat  in  December,  1851, 
he  sat  sad  and  disgusted  in  the  Assembly,  watching  its 
long  agony,  and  waiting  for  the  obviously  preparing  and 
inevitable  stroke.  He  was  one  of  the  200  deputies  who 
were  seized  and  sent  to  Vincennes.  His  political  life 
ended  with  the  death  of  liberty  in  France.  He  retired 
to  his  beloved  home,  near  Cherbourg,  —  liis  ancestral 
Chateau  de  Tocqueville,  —  and  tlienceforward  till  his  de- 
cease occupied  himself,  as  far  as  health  permitted,  in  col- 
lecting materials  for  tlie  great  work  which,  to  the  regret 
of  all,  he  was  compelled  to  leave  unfinished.  Profoundly 
discouraged  and  sorrowful  he  certainly  Mas  ;  but  he  never 
altogether  lost  heart  as  to  the  final  redemption  of  his 
country,  and  never  for  one  hour  ceased  to  ponder  and  to 
labor  for  it. 

To  the  general  world,  however,  Tocqueville  is  known, 
not  as  an  active  politician,  but  as  the  profound  and  med- 
itative writer  on  political  science ;  and  as  such  he 
ranks,  as  at  least  an  equal,  with  the  three  great  modern 
masters  in  his  own  department ,  Machiavelli,  Montes- 
quieu, and  Burke ;  possessing  at  the  same  time  certain 
marked  characteristics  which  distinguish  him  from  each 
in  turn.  Machiavelli  was  a  subtle  and  sagacious  states- 
man, and  his  writings  abound  in  ingenious  deductions 
and  suggestions,  but  his  purpose  in  The  Prince  was 
mainly  practical,  and  the  ground  ranged  over  in  the  Dis- 
corsi  sopra  Tito  Livio  M-as  comparatively  narrow.  He 
was  admirable  in  his  faculty  of  large  generalization  and 
of  ])enetrating  insight ;  but  his  materials  were  deplorably 
scanty,  being  confined  to  one  Eoman  history  of  very 
questionable  accuracy,  and  of  very  unquestionable  in- 
completeness, and  to  what  he  had  himself  learned  at  first 
hand,  or  heard  I'rom  others,  of  the  political  annals  of  the 
small  Italian  states.  The  truth  is,  he  drew  far  more 
from  his  own  intuitive  sagacity,  sharpened  as  it  had  been 
by  active  participation  in  political  affairs  and  intimate 


256  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

» 

intercourse  witli  the  ablest  statesmen  and  j^enerals  of  Lis 
age,  than  iVom  any  facts  which  the  annals  of  other  coun- 
tries laid  before  liini ;  and  in  reading  his  cluqjters  we 
are  per])etually  disturbed  l)y  the  contrast  between  his 
wide  inductions  and  the  apparently  flimsy  foundation  on 
which  they  are  made  to  rest.*  Montesquieu,  we  con- 
fess, we  have  never  been  able  to  appreciate,  —  at  least, 
not  to  anything  like  the  degree  of  admiration  expressed 
for  him  by  his  countrymen.  The  finesse  and  acuteness 
of  his  mind  render  his  Ksprlt  dcs  Lois  a  most  entertain- 
ing book ;  but  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  that  you  are 
dealing  with  an  intellect  too  ingenious  to  be  quite  sound, 
and  too  distinct  and  positive  in  solving  the  great  prob- 
lems of  society  to  have  been  fully  conscious  of  their 
depth  or  difficulty ;  and  moreover,  the  reader  soon  finds 
that  no  reliance  can  be  placed  on  the  facts  adduced  by 
the  author  to  illustrate  or  to  prove  his  positions.  Any 
statement  which  answers  his  purpose  is  taken  for  gos- 
pel, however  contemptible  the  authority  on  Avhich  it 
rests ;  if  a  philosopher  or  historian  does  not  give  him 
what  he  wants,  a  missionary  or  a  traveller  will  do  as 
well ;  the  statistics  of  ISIeaco  are  quoted  to  exemplify 
doctrines  which  the  statistics  of  France  or  England 
might  have  refuted  ;  and  any  idle  tale  about  Siam,  Japan, 
or  Timbuctoo  which  has  reached  his  ears  is  easily  pressed 
into  the  service  if  no  solider  materials  are  at  hand. 
Both  the  Esprit  dcs  Lois  and  the  Grandeur  ct  Decadence 
are  therefore  rather  clever  disquisitions  than  wqrks  of 
real  philosophical  research.     Burke  was  a  mind  of    a 

*  It  is  interesting  to  see  Tocqueville's  estimate  of  his  great  predeces- 
sor. He  writes  to  Kergolay  :  "  Tlie  Machiavi-lli  of  the  History  of 
Florence  is,  to  me,  the  same  Machiavelli  who  wrote  7'hc  Prince.  I  can- 
not understand  the  perusal  of  the  first  work  h-aving  any  doubt  as  to  the 
object  and  meaning  of  the  second.  Machiavelli  in  his  History  often 
praises  great  and  noble  actions  ;  hut  with  him  this  is  obviously  an  affair 
of  the  imagination.  The  foundation  of  his  ideas  is,  that  all  actions  aie^ 
moially  indilferent  in  themselves,  and  must  be  judged  according  to  the 
skill  they  display  and  the  success  they  secure.  For  him  the  world  Is  a 
great  arena,  from  which  God  is  absent,  in  which  conscience  has  nothing 
to  do,  and  where  every  one  must  manage  as  well  as  he  can.  ilachiavelli 
is  the  grandfather  of  M.****.    I  need  say  no  more." 


M.   DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  .  257 

very  different  order.  He  was  not  a  systematic  or  ana- 
lytic thinker,  like  Macliiavelli  or  Montesquieu,  nor  proba- 
bly did  he  meditate  over  all  he  saw  and  knew  as  patiently 
and  searchingiy  as  Tocqueville ;  but  his  memoiy  was 
stored  with  wealth  of  every  sort ;  his  genius  was  per- 
haps the  very  loftiest  and  finest  that  has  ever  been  de- 
voted to  political  investigations ;  his  wonderful  imagina- 
tion, though  it  sometimes  led  him  astray,  and  often 
tempted  him  too  far,  yet  gave  him  a  profound  and  pene- 
trating insight,  and  an  almost  prophetic  intuition,  which 
mere  reason  and  observation  could  never  attain  ;  and  his 
passionate  sympathies  with  all  that  was  good  ar.d  noble 
or  suffering  and  oppressed,  while  they  frequently  made 
him  intemperate  and  occasionally  made  him  unjust, 
throve  over  his  works  a  fascination  and  a  glow  which  be- 
long to  no  other  writer.  The  more  we  study  him,  the 
more  we  are  compelled  to  rank  him  as  at  once  the  wisest 
and  most  lovable  of  political  philosophers. 

Tocqueville  had  two  or  three  characteristics  as  a 
writer  and  thinker  which  distinguished  him  from  all  his 
three  predecessors.  He  was  not  a  learned  man,  though 
no  one  ever  took  greater  pains  to  make  all  the  investiga- 
tions and  to  amass  all  the  information  requisite  to  form 
a  conscientious  judgment  on  the  questions  which  he 
treated  ;  he  had  all  the  clearness  and  precision  of  thought 
which  belong  to  the  French  mind ;  he  had  a  faculty  of 
patiently  "  chewing  the  cud  "  of  his  reflections  and  mate- 
rials which  was  almost  German;  he  was  a  ruminating 
animal ;  *  he  revolved  and  meditated,  as  well  as  examined 

*  His  mode  of  working  is  thus  described  in  a  letter  to  Diiverjiier 
d'Hauianne.  "  Wlien  I  liave  a  subject  to  treat,  it  is  almost  impossible 
to  read  any  books  that  have  been  written  by  otliers  on  it  :  the  contact 
of  the  ideas  of  other  men  disturbs  and  affects  me  painfully.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  I  take  incredible  pains  to  find  out  everything  for  myself  in 
the  original  documents  of  the  epocli  1  am  dealing  with  :  often  1  obtain 
in  this  manner  with  vast  labor  what  I  might  liave  discovered  much 
more  easily  by  following  a  different  line.  Vv'hen  I  have  gathered  in  this 
toilsome  harvest,  I  retire  as  it  were  into  myself  ;  I  examine  with  e.Ktreme 
care,  collate,  and  connect  the  notions  I  have  thus  acquired  ;  and  I  then 
set  to  work  to  draw  out  and  e.x])ound  the  ideas  which  have  arisen  spon- 
taneously within  me  during  tliis  long  effort,  without  giving  a  single 
thought  to  the  inferences  which  others  may  deduce  from  what  I  write." 


258  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

and  reasoned;  wliile  he  was  peculiarly  English  in  the 
eminently  practical  turn  of  his  ideas,  as  well  as  in  his 
almost  solemn  earnestness  of  purpose  and  in  thepredom-' 
inance  and  constant  activity  of  the  moral  element  within 
him.  It  is  this  last  feature  in  his  speculations,  more  even 
than  their  depth  and  astonishing  sagacity,  which  lends 
them  their  greatest  charm  :  you  feel  that  you  are  dealing 
with  a  man  who  not  only  believes  every  word  he  says, 
and  experiences  every  sentiment  to  which  he  gives  ex- 
pression, but  to  whom,  in  this  crisis  of  the  destiny  of 
mankind,  everything  is  grave  and  nearly  everything  is 
sad.  Tocqueville  had  no  taste  for.  abstract  reasoning ; 
he  abominated  metaphysics ;  he  found  himself  thrown 
into  the  arena  of  lile,  in  a  hind,  and  at  a  time,  where 
there  was  much  to  alarm  and  yet  more  to  perplex  and 
disgust  both  the  patriot  and  the  general  philanthrojjist ; 
lie  saw  a  tide  setting  in  over  the  Avhole  western  world 
which  seemed  irresistible  in  its  strength  and  perilous  in 
its  direction ;  and  he  set  to  work  with  his  whole  soul  to 
study  its  nature  and  its  origin,  in  the  hope,  which  at 
length  nearly  ripened  into  a  conviction,  that  what  could 
not  be  checked  might  be  modified  and  guided,  so  as  to 
become  comparatively  harmless  and  almost  beneficent. 
He  believed  that  the  democratic  tendencies  of  the  age 
throughout  Europe,  as  well  as  in  America,  were  omnipo- 
tent as  against  all  antagonism,  but  that  they  might  be 
mastered,  and  ridden  as  it  were,  if  we  could  at  once  ac- 
cept them  as  inevitable,  nnderstand  their  meaning  and 
tlieir  foibles,  and  foresee  and  guard  against  the  dangers 
and  excesses  inherent  in  their  essence.  Tliis  was  the 
idee-mh-e,  as  he  often  calls  it,  of  his  great  work  on  the 
American  Democrctcy  ;  this  engrossed  and  colored  all  his 
thoughts  and  directed  his  course  while  an  active  ]ioliti- 
cian  ;  this  dictated  his  last  literary  efibrt,  LAncicn  Ile- 
gime,  and  haunted  him  to  his  latest  hour.  lu  1S3G  he 
writes  to  Kergolay  :  — 

"  Tout  ce  que  tu  me  dis  sur  la  tendance  centralisante,  rc- 
gl6mentaire,  de  la  democratic  europeenne,  me  semble  [mrfait. 
....  Les  pensees  que  tu  exprimes  la  sent  les  plus  vitales  de 


M.    DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  259 

toutes  mes  pensees ;  ce  sont  celles  qui  reviennent,  pour  ainsi 
dire,  tons  les  jours  et  a  chaque  instant  du  jour  dans  mou 
esprit.  Indiquer,  s'il  se  peut,  aux  liommes  ce  qu'il  faut  faire 
pour  echapper  a  la  tyrannic  et  a  Tabatardissement  eu  deve- 
nant  democixdiqiies,  telle  est,  je  pense,  I'idee  generale  dans  la- 
quelle  peut  se  resumer  mou  livre,  et  qui  apparaitra  a  toiites 
les  pages  de  celui  que  j'ecris  en  ce  moment.  Travailler  daus 
ce  sens,  c'est  a  mes  yeux  une  occupation  saiiite,  et  pour  la- 
quelle  il  ne  faut  epargner  ni  son  argent,  ui  son  temps,  ni  sa 
vie." 

To  liis  friend  Stoffels  lie  explains  liis  purpose  more 
fully:- 

"  I  wished  to  show  what  in  our  days  a  democratic  people 
really  was,  and,  by  a  rigorously  accurate  picture,  to  produce 
a  double  effect  on  the  men  of  my  day.  To  those  who  have 
fancied  an  ideal  democracy,  as  a  brilliant  and  easily  realized 
dream,  I  vmdertook  to  show  that  they  had  clothed  the  pic- 
ture in  false  colors ;  that  the  democratic  government  which 
they  desired,  though  it  may  procure  real  benefits  to  the  peo- 
ple who  can  bear  it,  has  none  of  the  elevated  features  with 
which  their  imagination  would  endow  it ;  and  moi'eover,  that 
such  a  government  can  only  maintain  itself  under  certain  con- 
ditions of  faith,  enlightenment,  and  private  morality  which 
we  have  not  yet  reached,  and  which  we  must  labor  to  attain 
before  grasping  their  political  results. 

"  To  men  for  whom  the  word  '  democracy '  is  the  synonyme 
of  overthrow,  spoliation,  anarchy,  and  murder,  I  have  endeav- 
ored to  prove  that  it  was  possible  for  democracy  to  govern  so- 
ciety, and  yet  to  respect  property,  to  recognize  rights,  to 
spare  liberty,  to  honor  religion  ;  that  if  democratic  govern- 
ment is  less  fitted  than  other  forms  to  develop  some  of  the 
finest  faculties  of  the  human  soul,  it  has  yet  its  noble  and  its 
lovely  features ;  and  that  perhaps,  after  all,  it  ma}"  be  the 
will  of  God  to  distribute  a  moderate  degree  of  happiness  to 
the  mass  of  men,  and  not  to  concentrate  great  felicity  and 
gi-eat  perfection  on  a  few.  I  have  tried,  moreover,  to  demon- 
strate that,  whatever  might  be  their  opinion  upon  these 
points,  the  time  for  discussing  them  was  past ;  that  the 
world  marched  onwards  day  by  day  towards  a  condition  of 
social  equality,  and  dragged  them  and  every  one  along  with 
it ;  that  their  only  choice  now  lay  between  evils  henceforth 


260  literary"  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

inevitable  ;  that  the  practical  question  of  this  day  was  not 
whether  you  wonld  have  an  aristocracy  or  a  democracy,  Imt 
W'hether  yon  would  have  a  democratic  society,  without  poetry 
and  without  grandeur,  but  with  morality  and  order  ;  or  a 
democratic  society  disorganized  and  depraved,  delivered  over 
to  a  furious  frenzy,  or  else  bent  beneath  a  j'oke  heavier  than 
any  that  have  weighed  upon  mankind  since  the  fall  of  the 
Ilonian  Empire. 

"  1  wanted  to  lessen  the  ardor  of  the  first  class  of  politi- 
cians, and,  without  discouraging  them,  to  point  out  their  only 
wise  course.  I  sought  to  lessen  the  terrors  of  the  second 
class,  and  to  curb  their  will  to  the  idea  of  an  inevitable  fu- 
ture, so  that,  one  set  having  less  eagerness,  and  the  other  set 
offering  less  resistance,  society  might  march  on  peaceably  to- 
wards the  fulfilment  of  its  destiny,  Voild,  Videe-mere  de 
Vouvrage:'     (Vol.  I.  p.  427.) 

It  is  obvious  enough  from  this  passage,  as  from  many 
others,  that  Tocqueville's  own  opinions  and  predilections 
were  anything  ratlier  than  democratic.  He  writes  to 
Kergolay  from  the  United  States  in  1831 :  — 

"  Nous  aliens  nous-memes,  mon  cher  ami,  vers  une  demo- 
cratic sans  boiTies.  Je  ne  dis  pas  que  ce  soit  une  bonne 
chose ;  ce  que  je  vois  dans  ce  pays-ci  me  convainc  au  con- 
traire  que  la  France  s'en  arrangera  mal ;  mais  nous  y  allons 

pousses  par  luie  force  irresistible Dans  les  premiers 

temps  de  la  r^publique,  les  hcmmes  d'etat,  les  membres  des 
Chambres,  etaient  beaucoup  plus  distingues  qu'ils  ne  le  sont 
aujourd'hui.  lis  faisaient  presque  tons  partie  de  cette  classe 
de  proprietaires  dont  la  race  s'eteint  tons  les  jours.  Mainte- 
nant  Ic  pays  n'a  plus  la  main  si  heureuse.  Ses  choix  tombent 
en  general  sur  ceux  qui  flattent  ses  passions  et  se  mettent  a 
sa  portee.  Cet  effet  de  la  democratie,  joint  a  I'extreme  insta- 
bilite  de  toutes  choses,  au  defout  absolu  d'esprit  de  suite  et  de 
duree  qu'on  remarque  ici,  me  demontre  tons  les  jours  davan- 
tage  que  le  cfouverneynent  le  phts  rationnel  nest  jms  cehii  auquel 
ions  les  interesses  preiinent  part,  mais  celui  que  dirigent  les 
classes  les  2^1  us  edairees  et  les  plus  morales  de  la  societeJ^ 

The  truth  is,  tliat  Tocqueville  had  an  essentially  Judi- 
cial mind ;  he  adhered  to  no  special  political  party  ;  he 
had  no  political  passion  but  that  of  liberty ;  and  he  had 


M.   DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  261 

no  political  prejudice  at  all.  His  birth  from  an  aristo- 
cratic family,  and  in  a  democratic  age,  made  it,  as  he 
says  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Eeeve,  easy  for  him  to  guard  him- 
self against  the  unreasonable  likes  and  dislikes  of  both 
classes  :  — 

"  Ou  veut  absolument  faire  de  moi  «n  liomme  de  parti,  et 
je  ne  le  suis  poiut.  On  me  donne  des  passions,  et  je  n'ai  que 
des  opinions  ;  ou  plutot,  je  n'ai  qu'une  passion,  I'amour  de  la 
hberte  et  de  la  dignite  humaine.  Toutes  les  formes  gouverne- 
men tales  ne  sont  a  mes  yeux  que  des  moyens  plus  ou  moins 
parfaits  de  satisfaire  cette  sainte  et  legitime  passion  de 
I'homme." 

Alexis  de  Tocqueville  had  long  been  known  over  the 
world  as  one  of  the  profoundest  political  thinkers  of  this 
or  any  age :  it  is  only  from  his  correspondence  that  those 
who  had  not  the  privilege  of  knowing  him  personally  could 
learn  how  unique  and  how  superior  he  was  in  his  inner 
nature,  and  in  all  the  relations  of  private  life.  This  cor- 
respondence is  extraordinarily  rich  and  interesting ;  for 
to  Tocqueville  not  only  was  constant  intercourse  with  his 
friends,  and  a  real  interchange  of  sentiments  and  ideas, 
an  absolute  necessity,  but  it  was  a  positive  pleasure  to 
him  to  develop  his  views  and  the  workings  of  his  mind 
in  writing  when  he  could  not  do  it  in  conversation.  He 
wrote,  too,  moreover,  with  the  greatest  openness  as  well 
as  with  singular  clearness  and  care ;  and  he  wrote  ou 
those  subjects  which  most  especially  for  the  moment  oc- 
cupied his  thoughts  ;  so  that  in  reading  his  letters  we  not 
only  learn  to  know  the  man,  but  are  admitted  at  once  to 
a  treasure-house  of  political  sagacity  and  pregnant  sug- 
gestions almost  as  rich  as  his  published  works.  We  see 
his  opinions  in  the  process  of  formation  ;  we  see  the 
infinite  pains  he  took  to  collect  and  to  consider  dispas- 
sionately all  that  could  throw  light  upon  them  ;  we  see 
them  shghtly  modified,  indeed,  by  time,  but  on  the  whole 
growing  firmer,  clearer,  and  more  constant,  as  his  experi- 
ence became  wider  and  his  meditations  deeper.  But, 
above  all,  we  see  into  the  innermost  recesses  of  his  charac- 
ter ;  we  learn  the  relative  value  at  which  he  appraised  all 


2G2  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

eartlily  hlessings  ;  \vc  learn  the  estimate  which  he  formed 
of  life,  its  enjoyments,  its  obligations,  and  its  meaning, 
tlie  purposes  to  wliich  he  determined  to  consecrate  it,  the 
objects  for  "which  he  was  willing  to  resign  it.  Domestic 
felicity,  tlie  serene  delight  and  strength  of  married  life,  he 
considered  beyond  aU  price ;  he  sought  I'or  it  with  single- 
ness of  aim,  and  he  secured  it  in  rare  perfection.  "  Plus 
je  roule  dans  ce  monde,  et  plus  je  suis  amene  h,  penser 
qu'il  n'y  a  que  lebonheur  domestique  qui  signifie  quelque 
chose,"  he  wrote  in  1831.  Four  years  later  he  married 
an  English  lady  to  whom  he  had  been  long  attached. 
The  lady  had  neither  rank  nor  fortune,  and  many  of 
Tocqueville's  friends,  therefore,  objected  to  the  connection 
as  undesirable.  Nevertheless,  as  M.  de  Ijeaumont  ob- 
serves, he  never  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Where  was  the 
use  of  being  superior  to  ordinary  men  in  intellect,  if  he 
was  to  sink  to  their  level  in  his  sentiments  and  character, 
and  to  marry  for  money  and  promotion,  instead  of  making 
it  his  wisdom  and  his  pride  to  consult  only  his  reason 
and  his  heart  ?  In  acting  as  he  did,  too,  he  not  only 
followed  his  nobler  instincts,  but  he  was  proibundly  con- 
vinced of  the  surpassing  moral  influence  which  must  be 
exercised  on  the  entire  existence  of  a  man  by  the  charac- 
ter of  the  woman  he  has  selected  as  the  companion  of  his 
course.  He  always  counted  his  marriage  as  the  wisest 
action  of  his  whole  life.  Scarcely  a  year  passes  that  we 
do  not  find  in  one  or  other  of  his  letters  some  sentence 
like  the  following  :  — 

"  La  petite  gene  que  sous  ce  rapport  [want  of  wealth] 
j'^prouve  ne  ni'empeche  pas  de  benir  Dieu  tons  les  jours  et 
de  to\it  mou  coeur  d'avoir  pu  acquerir  a  ce  prix  la  femme 
admirable  avec  laquelle  je  vis.  Assurement  je  ne  puis  pas 
dire  que  la  Providence  m'ait  maltraite  dans  ce  monde  ;  mais 
de  tons  ses  bienfaits,  celui  que  chaque  jour  me  montre  plus 
grand,  c'est  d'avoir  place  Marie  sur  mon  cheniin.  J'abandon- 
nerais  tous  ces  autres  dons  pour  conserver  celui-la.  Adieu, 
mon  bon  ami ;  mou  coeur  s'adoucit  et  s'ouvre  toujours  lorsque 
je  suis  sur  ce  chapitre."* 

*  His  estimate  of  the  singular  value  of  a  good  wife  to  public  men  is 


M.   DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  263 

Tocqueville  had  three  or  four  intimate  friends,  besides 
numbers  with  whom  it  was  a  constant  pleasure  to  him 
to  hold  cordial  and  unreserved  intercourse.  Friendship 
with  him  was  not  so  much  an  addition  to  the  other  en- 
joyments and  embellishments  of  life  as  a  first  necessity 
of  life.  He  says  more  than  once  that  he  is  at  a  loss  to 
conceive  how  a  man  can  live  without  some  sister-soul 
into  which  he  can  pour  all  his  own.  He  threw  into  this 
sentiment  all  the  tenderness,  delicacy,  and  warmth  which 
pervaded  his  entire  nature,  and  formed  for  it  a  very  high 
ideal.  To  his  earliest  bosom  friend,  Kergolay,  lie  writes:  — 

"  Pour  en  finir  sur  ce  point,  je  te  dirai  qu'il  n'y  a  rien  de 
plus  pr^cieux  pour  moi  que  notre  amitie.  J'y  vols  une  source 
inepuLsable  de  sentiments  eleves  ct  energiques,  de  belles 
emotions,  de  resolutions  genereuses,  un  monde  a  part,  un  peu 
ideal  peut-etre,  mais  oil  je  me  repose,  non  point  comme  un 
paresseux,  mais  com  me  un  homme  fatigu^  qui  s'arrete  un 
moment  pour  reprendre  des  foi'ces  et  se  jeter  plus  avaut  en- 
suite  dans  la  melee." 

His  estimate  of  existence,  its  value,  and  its  uses,  was 
as  lofty  and  generous  as  religion  and  philosophy  could 
combine  to  make  it.  Among  his  scattered  manuscripts  is 
found  this  sentence,  which,  as  his  biograplier  observes,  is 
in  itself  a  resume  of  his  whole  life  :  "  La  vie  n'est  pas  un 
plaisir,  ni  une  douleur ;  mais  une  affaire  grave  dont  nous 
sommes  charges,  et  qu'il  faut  conduire  et  terminer  a 
notre  honneur."  Again,  he  writes  shortly  before  his 
marriage :  — 

"  I  feel  more  and  more  as  you  do  as  to  the  joys  of  con- 
science.    I  believe  them  to  be  at  once  the  deepest  and  the  must 

well  worth  quoting.  "  I  have  a  hundred  times  in  tlie  course  of  my  life 
saen  weak  men  display  real  public  virtue,  because  they  had  beside  them 
a  wife  who  sustained  them  in  this  course,  not  by  counselling  this  or  that 
action  in  particular,  but  by  exercising  a  fortifying  influence  on  their 
views  of  duty  and  ambition.  Oftener  .still  I  have  seen  domestic  in- 
fluence operating  to  transfomi  a  man  naturally  generous,  noble,  and  un- 
seltish,  into  a  cowardly,  vulgar,  and  ambitious  self-seeker,  who  thought 
of  his  country's  aliairs  only  to  see  how  they  could  be  turned  to  his  own 
private  comfort  or  advancement;  —  and  this  simply  by  daily  contact 
with  an  honest  woman,  a  faithful  wife,  a  devoted  mother,  but  from 
whose  mind  the  grand  notion  of  i>ublic  duty  was  entirely  absent." 


2C-4  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

real.     There  is  only  one  great  object  in  this  world  that  de- 

Kcrves  our  efforts  ;   that  is,  the  good  of  humanity As 

I  advance  in  life,  I  see  it  more  and  more  from  that  point  of 
view  which  I  used  to  fancy  belonged  to  early  youth,  viz.,  as  a 
thing  of  very  mediocre  worth,  valuable  only  as  far  as  one  can 
employ  it  in  doing  one's  duty,  in  serving  men,  and  in  taking 
one's  fit  place  among  them.  How  cold,  small,  and  sad  life 
would  become  if,  by  the  side  of  this  every-day  woi-ld,  so  full 
of  cowardice  and  selfishness,  the  human  mind  could  not  build 
for  itself  another,  in  which  generosity,  courage,  virtue,  in  a 
w^ord,  may  breathe  at  ease!  ....  Ah  !"  (he  concludes)  "que 
je  voudrais  que  la  Providence  me  pr^sentat  une  occasion  d'em- 
ployer  a  faire  de  bonnes  et  grandes  choses,  quelques  piirils 
qu'elle  y  attachut,  ce  feu  interieur  que  je  sens  au  dedans  de 
moi,  et  qui  ne  sait  ou  trouver  qui  I'alimente." 

A  quarter  of  a  century  later,  about  two  years  before 
his  death,  he  writes  to  a  friend  who  had  dissuaded  him 
from  spending  too  much  of  his  time  iu  the  solitude  of  a 
country  life : — 

"  You  know  that  my  most  settled  principle  is,  that  there  is 
no  period  of  a  man's  life  at  which  he  is  entitled  to  rest ;  and 
that  effort  out  of  one's  self,  and  still  more  above  one's  self,  is 
as  necessary  in  age  as  in  j-outh,  —  nay,  even  more  necessary. 
Man  in  this  world  is  like  a  traveller  who  is  always  walking 
towards  a  colder  region,  and  who  is  therefore  obliged  to  be 
more  active  as  he  goes  farther  north.  The  great  malady  of 
the  soul  is  cold.  And  iu  order  to  counteract  and  combat  this 
formidable  illness,  he  must  keep  up  the  activity  of  his  mind 
not  only  b}'  Avork,  but  by  contact  with  his  fellow-men  and 
with  the  world.  Eetirement  from  the  great  conflicts  of  the 
world  is  desirable  no  doubt  for  those  whose  strength  is  on  the 
decline;  but  absolute  retirement,  away  from  the  stir  of  life,  is 
not  desirable  for  any  man,  nor  at  any  age." 

It  is  always  extremely  interesting  to  knoAv  the  estimate 
formed  of  mankind  in  general  by  those  who  have  studied 
them  profoundly  as  well  as  acted  with  them  in  the.  most 
trying  relations  of  life.  Tocqueville's  opinion  of  his 
fellow-men  was  indulgent,  but  not  high.  When  a  young 
man,  he  tried  to  love  them,  he  says,  but  M-ithout  much 
success.     "  I  like  mankind  ;  but  I  constantly  meet  indi- 


M.   DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  265 

vicluals  who  repel  and  disgust  me  by  the  meanness  of  their 
nature.  It  is  my  daily  effort  to  guard  against  a  universal 
contempt  for  my  fellow-men.  I  can  only  succeed  by  a 
minute  and  severe  analysis  of  myself ;  the  result  of  which 
is,  that  I  am  inclined,  as  a  rule,  rather  to  condemn  men's 
intelligence  than  their  hearts."  In  1840,  when  immersed 
in  public  life,  he  says  to  Stoffels,  "  It  is  a  sad  side  of  hu- 
manity that  politics  uncovers.  We  may  say,  without 
making  any  exception,  that  nothing  there  is  either 
thoroughly  pure  or  thoroughly  disinterested ;  nothing 
really  generous,  nothing  hearty  or  spontaneous.  There 
is  no  youth,  even  among  the  youngest ;  and  something 
cold,  selfish,  and  premeditated  may  be  detected  even  in 
the  most  apparently  passionate  proceedings."  And,  as 
the  summary  result  of  his  experience,  he  speaks  thus  to 
a  somewhat  misanthropic  friend  :  — 

"  You  make  out  humanity  worse  than  it  is.  I  have  seen 
many  countries,  studied  many  men,  mingled  in  many  public 
transactions  ;  and  the  result  of  my  observation  is  not  what 
you  suppose.  Men  in  general  are  neither  very  good  nor  very 
bad  ;  they  are  simply  mediocre.  I  have  never  closely  examined 
even  the  best  without  discovering  faults  and  frailties  invis- 
ible at  first.  I  have  always  in  the  end  found  among  the 
worst  certain  elements  and  holding-points  of  honesty.  There 
are  two  men  in  every  man  :  it  is  childish  to  see  only  one  ;  it  is 

sad  and  unjust  to  look  only  at  the  other Man,  with  all 

his  vices,  his  weaknesses,  and  his  virtues,  this  strange  mixture 
of  good  and  bad,  of  low  and  lofty,  of  sincere  and  depraved,  is, 
after  all,  the  object  most  deserving  of  study,  interest,  pity, 
affection,  and  admiration  to  be  found  upon  this  earth ;  and 
since  we  have  no  angels,  we  cannot  attach  ourselves  to  any- 
thing greater  or  worthier  than  our  fellow-creatures." 

Our  space  is  limited,  and  as  we  have  been  chiefly 
anxious  to  display  the  character  and  inner  nature  of 
Alexis  de  Tocqueville  as  revealed  in  these  volumes,  we 
have  been  obliged  to  pass  over  nearly  all  his  judgments 
and  reflections  on  the  events  of  his  day  both  at  home  and 
abroad,  though  these  are  everywhere  replete  with  interest 
and  instruction.      If  we  had  been  able,  we  should  have 

12 


■2G(J  LITERAKY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

wished  to  cite  his  views  as  to  the  change  in  the  literary 
temper  of  his  country  ;  as  to  tlie  moral  retrogression  since 
the  epoch  of  1789  ;  his  vivid  picture,  in  a  letter  to 
Madame  Swetchine,  of  the  transformation  of  the  young 
conscript  from  the  peasant  into  the  soldier,  and  vice  versa; 
his  profound  remarks  on  the  mischief  which  in  France  re- 
ligion has  always  suffered  from  the  alliance  hetween  the 
Church  and  the  Government ;  and  his  sound  and  sagacious 
notions  as  to  the  peculiar  perils  and  difficulties  of  our 
Indian  empire.  But  for  all  these  we  must  refer  our 
readers  to  the  volumes  themselves,  of  which  an  English 
translation  by  a  most  competent  hand  is  about  to  ajipear. 
We  must,  however,  be  allowed  to  extract  his  remarks  as 
to  the  "  political  selfishness  of  England,"  and  the  singular 
impressions  on  this  head  which  prevail  in  every  part  of 
the  world,  and  which  so  friendly  and  acute  an  observer 
as  Tocqueville  could  not  help  avowing  that  he  shared. 
He  had  noticed  what  few  others  on  the  Continent  seem 
yet  to  have  perceived :  — 

"The  gradual  change  which  has  come  over  the  English 
temperament,  which  is  daily  becoming  more  pacific,  less  irri- 
table, and  less  proud,  than  at  any  previous  period  of  modem 
history.  This  I  believe  to  be  only  the  result  of  the  grand  rev- 
olution which  has  been  at  work  there,  slowly  indeed,  but  as 
in'csistibly  as  everywhere  else,  —  the  predominance  of  the 
middle  classes  over  the  aristocracy,  and  of  the  industrial 
element  over  the  agricultural  and  real-property  one.  "Will 
this  be  a  good,  or  an  evill  Your  grandchildren  will  discuss 
this  question.  A  society  calmer  and  duller,  more  tranquil  and 
less  heroic,  —  such  no  doubt  will  be  the  spectacle  for  our  suc- 
cessors." 

But  in  1856  he  writes  to  M.  de  Beaumont : — 

"Mme.  Grote  nous  envoie  quelquefois  des  joumaux  anglais 
qui  font  ma  joie.  lis  out  une^espece  de  naivete  ravissante 
dans  leur  passion  nationale.  A  leurs  yeux,  les  ennemis  de 
TAngleterre  sont  tout  naturellement  des  coquins,  et  ses  amis 
de  grands  hommes.  La  seule  6chelle  de  la  moralite  humaiue 
qu'ils  comiaissent  est  la." 


M.   DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  267 

And  to  Mrs.  Grote  herself  he  says  :  — 

*'Aux  yeux  des  Anglais,  la  cause  dont  le  succes  est  utile  h. 
I'Augleterre  est  toujours  la  cause  de  la  justice.  L'humme  ou 
le  gouveruement  qui  sert  les  interets  de  I'Angleterre  a  toutcs 
sortes  de  qualites,  et  celui  qui  la  nuit,  toutes  sortes  de  defauts  ; 
de  sorte  qu'il  semblerait  que  le  criterium  de  rhonnete,  du  beau, 
et  du  juste  doit   etre  cherche  dans   ce  qui  favorise  ou  ce  qui 

blesse  I'interet  anglais En  France,  on  a  fait  souvent 

en  politique  des  choses  utiles  et  injustes,  mais  sans  que  I'utilite 
cacLat  au  public  I'injustice.  Nous  avons  meme  quelquefois 
employe  de  grands  coquins,  mais  sans  leur  attribuer  la  moindre 
vertu.  Je  ne  suis  pas  bien  sur  qu'au  point  de  vue  moral  cela 
vaut  mieux,  mais  elle  montre  du  moins  uue  faculte  plus 
graude  de  I'esprit." 

Finally,  he  calls  the  attention  of  Mr.  Senior  to  the  pain- 
ful fact  that  the  Indian  crisis,  even  more  than  our  suffer- 
ings in  the  Crimean  war,  showed  how  little  sympathy  and 
liking  for  England  can  be  found  among  foreign  nations. 
Our  discomfiture  in  that  fearful  conflict,  he  observes, 
could  have  profited  no  one  and  no  cause  but  tliat  of  bar- 
barism;  yet  it  was  generally  wished  for.  .  No  doul)t,  he 
says,  this  universal  sentiment  was  partly  attributable  to 
malice  and  envy,  but  also  in  part  to  a  less  discreditable 
reason, — "  to  a  conviction  felt  by  all  people  in  the  world 
that  England  never  considers  others  except  from  the  self- 
ish point  of  view  of  her  own  grandeur  ;  that  all  sympa- 
thetic sentiment  for  u-hat  is  not  herself  is  more  absent  in 
her  than  in  any  nation  of  modern  times  ;  that  she  never 
notices  what  passes  among  foreigners,  what  they  think, 
feel,  suffer,  or  do,  except  in  reference  to  the  advantage 
tliat  England  may  draw  therefrom,  —  occupied  in  reality 
only  with  herself,  even  when  she  seems  most  occupied 
with  them.  There  is  certainly  some  exaggeration  in 
this  notion,  but  I  cannot  say  there  is  not  much  truth 
in  it." 

It  is  well,  no  doubt,  that  we  should  be  aware  what 
harsh  things  are  tliought  of  us,  and  especially  that  we 
should  hear  them  from  a  man  so  candid  and  so  fair,  and 
usually  so  well  inclined  to  admire  and  love  England,  as 


268  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

Tocqueville  assuredly  was  ;  *  for  it  is  a  proof  that,  how- 
ever unjust  the  accusation,  we  must  have  given  some 
grounds  for  it  by  our  language  and  our  manners,  if  not  by 
our  actions.  But  as  to  the  chaj-ge  itself,  we  must  avow 
our  conscientious  conviction  that  it  is  monstrously  over- 
drawn, if  not  utterly  unfounded,  and  as  coming  from  a 
Frenchman  absolutely  astounding.  We  may  readily  ad- 
mit that  England  has  often  done  unjust  actions,  and  has 
shown  curious  ingenuity  in  blinding  herself  to  their  in- 
justice ;  we  may  even  allow  that,  like  other  nations,  she 
is  disposed  to  judge  her  friends  and  servants  more  lenient- 
ly than  her  foes,  —  to 

"  Be  to  their  faults  a  little  blind; 
Be  to  their  virtues  very  kind  "  ;  — 

we  may  confess,  with  shame,  that  the  language  of  our 
statesmen,  especially  of  late,  when  they  have  had  occasion 
to  explain  or  justii'y  the  measures  of  their  foreign  policy, 
has  often  been  calculated  to  give  an  air  of  truth  to  this 
accusation  of  unsocial  selfishness ;  and  that,  if  we  could 
consent  to  be  judged  by  the  coarse  and  ferocious  manifes- 
toes of  Mr.  Bright,  we  should  not  have  a  word  to  urge  in 
our  defence.  But  tliat  England  in  these  respects  has 
been  worse  than  other  nations,  that  she  has  not,  more 
particularly  during  tlie  last  half-century,  been  much  better 
than  other  nations,  that  she  has  not  of  late  years  been  the 
one  Power  M'hich  has  habitually  proclaimed  the  principles 
and  held  the  language  of  generous  sympathy  and  unself- 
ish public  morality,  —  we  must  emphatically  and  deliber- 
ately deny.  She  has  hailed  the  progress  of  civilization 
and  prosperity  everywhere ;  she  has  expressed  the  warmest 
appreciation  of  the  efforts  and  aspirations  of  liberty 
wherever  they  have  broken  forth  ;  she  has  been  the  first 
to  denounce  the  acts  of  injustice  and  oppression  occasion- 
ally exercised  by  her  own  agents  and  proconsuls ;  and 

*  His  admiration  of  our  country  ^vas  earnest  and  sincere.  On  his 
return  from  England  in  1857,  he  \vrote  to  M.  de  Corcelle  :  "  C'esth^  plus 
gi-aud  spectacle  qu'il  y  ait  dans  le  monde,  quoique  tout  n'y  soit  pas  grand. 
II  s'y  rencontre  surtout  des  choses  entierement  inconnues  dans  le  reste 
de  I'Exirope  et  dont  la  vue  m'a  soulage." 


M.   DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  269 

she  has  steadily  opposed  and  protested  against  the  grasp- 
ing and  intriguing  iniquities  of  France,  the  cynical  im- 
morality and  selfishness  of  whose  public  conduct  has 
been  written  in  sunbeams  on  every  page  of  recent  history. 
We  need  look  no  further  than  Italy  to  be  able  to  form  a 
comparative  judgment  of  the  relative  capacity  for  disin- 
terested sympathy  displayed  by  the  two  nations.  lie- 
publican  France,  without  the  faintest  vestige  of  a  jusb 
pretext,  sent  an  army  to  crush  the  republican  liberties  of 
Eome,  within  eighteen  months  after  she  had  turbulently 
seized  her  own ;  she  replaced  the  worst  government  of 
Europe  on  its  throne  by  force,  and  has  acted  as  its  shirri 
ever  since ;  she  did  this  simply  and  avowedly  to  prevent 
Austria  from  gaining  additional  influence  in  Italy  by 
forestalling  her  proceeding ;  and,  we  grieve  to  write  it, 
she  committed  this  enormous  and  unblushing  crime  while 
Alexis  de  Tocqueville  was  Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs. 
Italy  has  now  recovered  her  liberties,  thanks  to  Imperial 
ratlier  than  French  assistance  ;  she  has  formed  a  united 
country  under  a  constitutional  monarch ;  she  bids  fair  to 
be  in  time  free,  happy,  and  progressive.  What  does 
England  say  to  the  prospect  ?  —  she  is  wild  with  disinter- 
ested enthusiasm  and  delight.  What  does  France  say  ? 
Why,  all  French  publicists  or  statesmen,  with  scarcely  a 
single  exception  besides  the  Emperor, — Liberal,  Orleanist, 
Despotic,  Legitimist,  Eepublican,  Catholic,  Protestant, — 
are  grinding  their  teeth  with  dishonorable  envy  and  more 
dishonorable  rage.  "It  ivont  suit  France,"  is  their  unan- 
imous and  shameful  cry,  "  to  have  a  great  and  indepen- 
dent Italy  beside  her ;  she  may  become  our  rival ;  and 
what  title  has  Italy  to  be  free  while  we  are  whining  or 
fawning  under  despotism  ?  " 

We  must  draw  to  a  close.  The  great  charm  of  these 
volumes,  as  we  have  already  said,  lies  in  the  complete 
and  distinct  picture  they  present  of  the  real  nature  and 
being  of  the  man,  without  drapery  and  without  disguise. 
No  man  was  ever  more  worth  seeing  in  this  unreserved 
disclosure  than  Tocqueville,  and  few  men's  characters 
could  bear  it  so  weU.     Every  fresh  revelation  of  his 


270  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

most  intimate  sentiments  and  thoughts  only  serves  to 
make  us  love  him  better  and  admire  him  more.  He  was 
not  exactly  a  perfect  character,  and  yet  it  was  impossible 
to  wisli  anything  changed  or  anything  away.  You  might 
imagine  something  more  absolutely  faultless,  but  you 
could  not  imagine  anything  more  attractive  or  more  noble. 
Perhaps  his  most  unique  and  characteristic  distinction 
was  that,  while  perfectly  simple,  he  was  at  the  same  time 
unfailingly  high-minded.  You  felt  at  once  that  no  sen- 
timent, mean,  ungenerous,  prejudiced,  or  shallow,  covld 
gain  entrance  into  liis  mind  or  find  utterance  through 
his  lips.  A  profound  moral  earnestness  pervaded  every- 
thing he  did,  or  thought,  or  wrote.  He  could  not  sepa- 
rate either  public  from  private  morality,  or  patriotic  from 
personal  affection.  With  all  that  delicate  chivalry  of 
honor  which  belonged  to  the  purest  of  the  old  nohlcsse,  he 
blended  a  far  loftier  code  and  a  far  sounder  judgment  as 
to  the  truly  right  and  good  than  the  old  nohlcsse  ever 
dreamed  of.  He  threw  his  whole  soul  into  both  his 
philosophic  investigations  and  his  political  career.  He 
loved  his  country  as  he  loved  his  friends ;  its  misfor- 
tunes grieved  him  like  a  domestic  calamity ;  its  crimes 
and  follies  weighed  down  his  spirits  like  the  sin  and  dis- 
honor of  a  brother  or  a  son  ;  the  clouds  and  dangers  that 
hung  over  its  future  haunted  him  like  a  nightmare. 
Partly  from  this  cause,  and  partly  from  a  delicate  organ- 
ization and  frequent  suffering,  he  was  often  sad,  and  at 
times  melancholy  almost  to  despair.  His  intellect  was 
sensitive  and  restless  in  a  remarkable  degree  for  one  so 
sober  and  moderate  in  all  his  views ;  work,  actual  labor 
for  some  great  aim,  was  absolutely  necessary  to  his  com- 
fort and  tranquillity,  wliile,  alas,  it  was  often  too  much 
for  his  strength.  To  him  everything  in  life  was  serious ; 
he  felt  too  keenly  and  he  thought  too  deeply  not  to  be 
habitually  grave,  though  his  elegant  taste,  cultivated  in- 
telligence, and  natural  sense  of  humor  prevented  this 
gravity  from  ever  becoming  oppressive,  except  to  the 
most  frivolous  and  shallow  minds.  The  grace  of  his 
manner  and  the  charm  of  his  conversation  were,. by  uni- 


M.   DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  271 

versal  admission,  unrivalled  in  this  day ;  Mdiile  to  the  in- 
tercourse of  daily  lil'e  the  exquisite  polish  of  his  spirit, 
mingled  with  a  most  affectionate  and  caressing  disposi- 
tion, lent  a  fascination  that  was  strangely  irresistible.  In 
the  midst,  too,  of  all  his  rare  refinement  and  maturity  of 
Avisdom  there  was  a  fund  of  enthusiasm  which  gave  re- 
lief and  animation  to  the  whole  ;  and  there  were  few 
changes  in  France  whicli  he  deplored  more  than  the  cold 
and  passionless  materialism  which  seemed  to  have  ab- 
sorbed all  classes  and  all  ages.  In  1858,  he  describes  a 
visit  which  he  paid  to  an  enthusiastic  old  Benedictine  of 
ninety-six,  who  had  shared  in  all  the  hopes  and  efforts 
of  1789  ;  and  then  goes  on  to  say  to  jM.  Freslon^  his  cor- 
respondent :  — 

"  J'ai  deja  remarque  qu'en  France  la  quantite  de  cfdorique 
intellectuel  et  moral  etait  en  raison  inverse  du  uombre  des  an- 
nees.  On  est  plus  froid  a  mesure  qu'ou  est  plus  jeuue  ;  et  la 
temperature  semble  s'elever  avec  I'age.  Des  hommes  comme 
vous  et  moi  paraissent  deja  des  enthousiastes  bien  ridicules 
aux  sages  de  dix-huit  ans.  Suivant  cette  loi  nouvelle,  moti 
centeuuire  devait  etre  tout  feu.  Et  il  letait  en  effet  quand  il 
parlait  des  esperances  de  89  et  de  la  grande  cause  de  la  liberte. 
Je  lui  ai  demandc  s'il  trouvait  la  France  bien  chaugee  sous 
le  rapport  moral.  *  Ah  ]  monsieur,'  m'a-t-il  repondu,  'je  crois 
rever  quand  je  me  rappelle  I'etat  des  esprits  dans  ma  jeunesse, 
la  vivacite,  la  sincerite  des  opinions,  le  respect  de  soi-meme  et 
de  ropiniou  publique,  le  desinte'ressement  dans  la  passion 
publique.  Ah  !  monsieur  (ajoutaitil  en  me  serrant  les  mains 
avec  I'efFusion  et  I'emphase  du  xviii™*  siecle),  on  avail  alors 
une  cause :  on  n'a  phis  que  des  interets.  II  y  avait  des  liens 
entre  les  hommes :  il  n'y  eu  a  plus.  II  est  bien  triste,  mon- 
sieur, de  survivre  a  sou  pays.'" 

"We  are  naturally  desirous  to  know  the  sentiments  of  a 
man  at  once  so  good,  so  wise,  and  so  free,  on  religion,  — 
that  great  matter  on  which  w^ise  and  free  and  good  men 
differ  so  marvellously,  if  not  so  hopelessly.  Neither  the 
memoir  nor  the  correspondence  is  very  specific  on  this 
head.  This  much,  however,  appears  clearly,  that  the 
subject   was   one  that   occupied    his  intensest  thought. 


272  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

and  that  he  lield  faith  to  be  a  possession  of  first  neces- 
sity to  individuals  as  to  states.  He  often  laments  the 
indifference  and  infidelity  of  his  countrymen,  and  their 
apparent  inability  to  do  as  Enj^dand  had  succeeded  in 
doing,  —  to  unite  belief  and  liberty.  Among  memo- 
randa and  reflections  written  early  in  life  and  found 
among  his  papers,  is  the  following:  "II  n'y  a  pas  de 
verity  absolue,"  and  a  little  further  on,  "  Si  j'c'tais  charge 
de  classer  les  miseres  humaines,  je  le  ferais  dans  cette 
ordre  :  1°.  Les  maladies ;  2°.  La  mort ;  3°.  Le  doute." 
Many  years  afterwards,  when  he  was  about  forty-five 
years  old,  he  writes  to  M.  de  Corcelle :  "  Je  ne  sais  d'ail- 
leurs  si  les  dernieres  circonstances  dans  laquelle  je  me 
suis  trouve,  la  gravite  plus  grande  que  I'age  donne  a  la 
pensee,  la  solitude  dans  laquelle  je  vis,  ou  toute  autre 
cause  que  je  ne  sais  pas,  agissent  sur  mon  ame  et  y  pro- 
duisent  un  travail  interieur;  la  verite  est  que  je  n'ai  ja- 
mais plus  sent!  le  besoin  de  la  base  e'ternelle,  du  terrain 
solide  sur  lequel  la  vie  doit  etre  batie.  Le  doute  m'a 
toujours  paru  le  plus  insupportable  des  maux  de  ce 
monde,  et  je  I'ai  constamment  juge  pire  que  le  raort." 

From  this  doubt,  however,  which  he  so  deprecated,  it 
was  impossible  for  a  spirit  at  once  so  searching  and  so 
honest  as  his  ever  quite  to  free  itself;  but  it  remained 
speculative  merely,  and  though  it  might  disturb  his  re- 
ligious creed,  it  never  for  one  moment  weakened  his  re- 
ligious sentiment :  in  all  that  is  essential,  eternal,  and 
indisputable,  no  sincerer  Christian  ever  lived  and  died. 
In  this,  as  in  other  matters,  Tocqueville  grew  more  tran- 
quil with  years,  if  not  more  happy.  Serenity,  indeed, 
could  never  be  the  portion  upon  earth  of  a  temperament 
so  tremblingly  sensitive  as  his ;  and  his  later  letters  are 
filled  with  the  most  touching  expressions  of  the  growing 
sadness  which  gathered  over  him  as  he  found  himself  be- 
coming more  and  more  isolated  in  feeling  and  opinion,  in 
aspirations  and  in  aims,  from  most  of  those  around  him. 
"What  his  contemporaries  worshipped  and  followed  had 
no  dignity  or  charms  for  him  ;  he  despised  what  they 
desired ;  he  cherished  what  they  had  neglected  and  for- 


M.   DE  TOCQUEVILLE.  273 

saken ;  they  seemed  hurrying  down  a  steep  incline  of 
which  he  saw  the  inevitable  abyss,  but  could  not  induce 
them  to  listen  to  his  warnings.  The  past,  containing  so 
much  that  was  beautiful  and  noble,  was  daily  becoming 
more  dead,  more  remote,  and  more  forgotten ;  and  in  the 
immediate  future,  so  far  as  human  eye  could  penetrate, 
no  dawn  of  hope  was  to  be  discerned.  Much  as  we 
mourn  for  his  untimely  loss,  deeply  as  we  grieve  over  his 
empty  place  and  his  unfinished  work,  we  can  well  be- 
lieve that  he  would  himself  have  discovered  some  conso- 
lation for  all  that  he  was  leaving  in  the  thought  that  he 
was  "  taken  away  from  the  evil  to  come. "  He  died 
peaceably  at  Cannes,  on  the  16th  of  April,  1859 ;  the 
purest,  noblest,  truest  gentleman  it  was  ever  our  privi- 
lege to  know.  Over  no  death-bed  might  the  lofty  lan- 
guage of  Tacitus  be  more  fitly  spoken :  "  Si  quis  piorum 
manibus  locus ;  si,  ut  sapientibus  placet,  non  cum  cor- 
pore  extinguuntur  magnse  animse,  placide  quiescas :  — 
nosque,  domum  tuam,  ab  infirmo  desiderio  et  muliebri- 
bus  lamentis,  ad  contemplationem  virtutum  tuarum 
voces,  quas  neque  lugeri  neque  plangi  fas  est ;  admira- 
tione  te  potius  et,  si  natura  suppeditet,  emulatione  deco- 
remus." 


12* 


WHY  AEE  "WO^IEN  EEDUNDANT  ? 

A  STATE  of  society  so  mature,  so  elaborate,  so  highly 
organized  as  ours  cannot  fail  to  abound  in  painful 
and  complicated  problems.  One  after  another  these  ex- 
cite attention.  The  philosopher  seeks  to  solve  them  ;  the 
philanthropist  endeavors  to  relieve  the  suffering,  and  the 
moralist  to  cure  the  evil,  they  involve  or  imply.  There 
is  enough,  alas,  in  the  various  forms  of  wrong,  of  error,  and 
of  wretchedness  which  multiply  around  us,  not  only  to 
make  our  hearts  bleed,  but  to  bewilder  our  understanding, 
to  disturb  our  conscience,  to  shame  our  indolence  and  ig- 
norance, and  almost  to  stagger  and  to  strain  our  faith  ; 
and  enough  also  to  afford  ample  occupation  to  that  vast 
amount  of  restless,  piying,  energetic,  impatient  benevo- 
lence, which  is  perhaps  the  most  remarkable,  as  it  is  cer- 
tainly the  most  hopeful,  feature  of  this  age.  It  would 
seem  as  if,  in  this  respect,  "  our  strength  was  equal  to  our 
clay,"  and  our  resources  to  the  work  wliich  lies  before  us : 
all  that  appears  necessary  is,  that  the  diagnosis  should  be 
complete  before  the  medicine  is  administered,  and  that 
the  physician  should  be  sure  of  his  prescription  before 
the  surgeon  begins  to  operate.  For  ourselves,  we  can  say 
that  we  never  "  despaired  of  the  Eepublic  " ;  we  have 
never  done  the  Creator  the  M'rong  of  doubting  (to  use  an 
expression  we  once  heard  from  Dr.  Chalmers)  "  that  the 
world  is  so  constituted  that  if  we  were  morally  right,  we 
should  be  socially  and  ph>^sically  happy  " ;  we  are  pro- 
foundly convinced  that,  of  all  tlie  evils  which  oppress 
civilization  and  all  the  dangers  which  menace  it,  none  lie 
beyond  the  reach  of  liuman  sagacity  to  analyze,  or  of  hu- 
man resolve  and  compassion  to  avert  and  cure.     If  we 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNDANT]        275 

thought  otherwise,  there  would  be  little  joy  in  living,  and 
little  comfort  in  looking  forth  on  life.  The  sensualist 
might  revel  in  the  pleasures  which  wealth  or  toil  placed 
within  his  reach,  till  repetition  brought  early  satiety  and 
disgust ;  the  lover  miglit  bask  in  his  brief  spring  and 
sunshine  of  fruition  ;  the  human  mill-horse  might  tread 
his  weary  rounds  in  the  dull  gray  apathy  of  selfishness  ; 
tlie  ambitious  man  might  stun  his  nobler  thoughts  in  the 
fierce  struggle  for  power  that  could  then  be  wielded  for 
no  hallowing  end ;  but  the  statesman  worthy  of  his 
grand  vocation,  and  the  thinker  capable  of  rising  to  the 
lieiuht  of  the  2;reat  arQ;ument  before  him,  would  find  both 

O  -  .... 

their  occupation  and  their  inspiration  gone. 

The  British  world  —  philanthropic  as  well  as  poetical 
—  takes  up  only  one  thing  at  a  time  ;  or  rather,  and  usu- 
ally, only  a  fragment  of  a  thing.  It  discovers  an  island, 
and  proceeds  to  reason  on  it  and  deal  with  it  as  such ; 
and  it  is  long  before  it  learns  that  the  supposed  island  is 
only  the  promontory  of  a  vast  continent.  Woman  is  tlie 
subject  which  for  some  time  back  our  benevolence  has 
been  disposed  to  take  in  hand,  fitfully  and  piecemeal. 
We  have  been  grieved,  startled,  shocked,  perplexed,  baf- 
fled ;  still,  with  our  usual  activity,  we  have  been  long  at 
work,  beating  about  the  bush,  ilying  at  this  symptom, 
attacking  that  fragment,  relieving  this  distress,  denounc- 
ing that  abomination.  First  it  was  the  factory  girls  ; 
then  the  distressed  needlewomen  ;  then  aged  and  decayed 
governesses  ;  latterly  Magdalens,  in  esse  or  m  futurum. 
The  cry  of  "  Woman's  Rights  "  reached  us  chiefly  from 
America,  and  created  only  a  faint  echo  here.  IVe  have 
occupied  ourselves  more  with  "  Woman's  Mission,"  and 
"  Woman's  Employment "  ;  and,  as  usual,  have  been  both 
more  practical  and  more  superficial  than  our  neighbors 
across  the  Channel  and  across  the  Atlantic  :  but  the  "  con- 
dition of  women,"  in  one  form  or  another,  —  their  wants, 
their  woes,  their  difficulties,  —  have  taken  possession  of 
our  thoughts,  and  seem  likely  to  occupy  us  busily  and 
painfully  enough  for  some  time  to  come.  And  well  they 
may ;  for  not  only  do  the  mischiefs,  anomalies,  and  falsi- 


276  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

ties  in  tliat  condition  unveil  tliemselves  more  and  more 
as  we  study  the  sultject,  but  they  are,  we  believe,  every 
day  actually  on  the  increase. 

The  problem,  which  is  so  generally  though  so  dimly 
perceived,  and  which  so  many  are  spasmodically  and  am- 
bitiously bent  on  solving,  when  looked  at  witli  a  certain 
degree  of  completeness,  —  with  an  endeavor,  that  is,  to 
bring  together  all  the  scattered  phenomena  which  are 
usually  only  seen  separately  and  in  detail,  —  appears  to 
resolve  itself  into  this  :  that  tliere  is  an  enormous  and 
increasing  number  of  single  women  in  the  nation,  a  num- 
ber quite  disproportionate  and  quite  abnormal ;  a  number 
-which,  positively  and  relatively,  is  indicative  of  an  un- 
wholesome social  state,  and  is  both  productive  and  prog- 
nostic of  much  wretchedness  and  wrong.  There  are 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  women  —  not  to  speak  more 
largely  still  —  scattered  through  all  ranks,  but  propor- 
tionally most  numerous  in  the  middle  and  upper  classes, 
who  have  to  earn  their  own  living,  instead  of  spending 
and  husbanding  the  earnings  of  men ;  who,  not  having 
the  natural  duties  and  labors  of  wives  and  mothers,  liave 
to  carve  out  artificial  and  painfully  sought  occupations 
for  themselves  ;  who,  in  place  of  completing,  sweetening, 
and  embellishing  the  existence  of  others,  are  compelled 
to  lead  an  independent  and  incomplete  existence  of  their 
own.  In  the  manufacturing  districts  thousands  of  girls 
are  working  in  mills  and  earning  ample  wages,  instead 
of  performing,  or  preparing  and  learning  to  perform,  the 
functions  and  labors  of  domestic  life  In  great  cities, 
thousands,  again,  are  toiling  in  the  ill-paid  victicr  of 
sempstresses  and  needlewomen,  wasting  life  and  soul, 
gathering  the  scantiest  subsistence,  and  surrounded  by 
the  most  overpowering  and  insidious  temptations.  As 
we  go  a  few  steps  higher  in  the  soci^il  scale,  we  find  two 
classes  of  similar  abnormal  existences :  women,  more  or 
less  well  educated,  spending  youth  and  middle  life  as 
governesses,  living  laboriously,  yet  perhaps  not  uncom- 
fortably, but  laying  by  nothing,  and  retiring  to  a  lonely 
and  destitute  old  age ;  and  old  maids,  with  just  enough 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNDANT?         277 

income  to  live  upon,  but  wretched  and  deteriorating,  their 
minds  narrowing,  and  their  hearts  withering,  because 
they  have  nothing  to  do,  and  none  to  love,  cherish,  and 
obey.  A  little  furtlier  upwards,  how  many  do  we  daily 
see,  how  many  have  we  all  known,  who  are  raised  by 
fortune  above  the  necessity  of  caring  for  their  own  subsist- 
ence, but  to  whom  employment  is  a  necessity  as  imperi- 
ous as  to  the  milliner  or  the  husbandman,  because  only 
employment  can  fill  the  dreary  void  of  an  unshared  ex- 
istence ;  beautiful  lay  nuns,  involuntary  takers  of  the 
veil,  who  pine  for  work,  who  beg  for  occupation,  who 
pant  for  interest  in  life,  as  the  hart  panteth  after  the 
water-brooks,  and  dig  for  it  more  earnestly  than  for  hid 
treasures.  With  most  women,  probably,  this  phase  comes 
at  some  epoch  in  their  course ;  with  numbers,  alas,  it 
never  passes  into  any  other.  Some  rush  to  charity,  and 
do  partial  good  or  much  mischief;  some  find  solace  in 
literary  interests  and  work,  and  these,  though  the  fewest, 
are  perhaps  the  most  fortunate  of  all ;  some  seek  in  the 
excessive  development  of  the  religious  affections  a  pale 
ideal  substitute  for  the  denied  human  ones,  —  a  substitute 
of  which  God  forbid  that  we  should  speak  slightingly, 
but  which  is  seldom  wholly  satisfactory  or  wholly  safe. 
Lastly,  as  we  ascend  into  the  highest  ranks  of  all,  we 
come  upou  crowds  of  the  same  unfulfilled  destinies,  — 
the  same  existences  manquees,  —  women  who  have  gay 
society,  but  no  sacred  or  sufficing  home,  whose  dreary 
round  of  pleasure  is  yet  sadder,  less  remunerative,  and 
less  satisfying  than  the  dreary  round  of  toil  trodden  by 
their  humble  sisters.  The  very  being  of  all  these  vari- 
ous classes  is  a  standing  proof  of,  and  protest  against, 
that  "  something  wrong,"  on  which  we  have  a,  few  words 
to  say,  —  that  besetting  problem  which,  like  the  sphinx's, 
society  must  solve  or  die. 

It  is  because  we  think  there  is  a  tendency  in  the  pub- 
lic mind  at  this  conjuncture  to  solve  it  in  the  wrong  way, 
to  call  the  malady  by  a  M'rong  name,  and  to  seek  in  a 
MTong  direction  for  the  cure,  that  we  take  up  our  pen. 
In  all  our  perplexities  and  disorders,  —  in  social  perplex- 


278  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

itie.s  and  disorders  more  perhaps  than  in  any  others, — 
there  is  one  golden  rnlc,  if  we  will  Init  apply  it,  which 
will  suit  great  things  as  well  as  small,  which  is  equally 
sound  for  all  ages  and  all  climes,  —  consult  Natvre ; 
question  her  honestly  and  boldly,  with  no  foregone  deter- 
mination as  to  what  answer  she  shall  give,  with  no  sneak- 
ing intention  to  listen  only  to  a  fragment  of  her  oracle, 
or  to  put  a  forced  construction  on  her  Mords.  Thus 
interrogated,  be  confident  that  she  will  give  forth  no 
mistaken  or  ambiguous  reply.  Nature,  as  soon  as  Ave 
have  learned  to  love  her  and  to  trust  her,  and  to  under- 
stand her  language,  is  always  right,  and  most  commonly 
speaks  intelligibly  enough.  In  our  difficulties,  then,  let 
us  consult  her;  in  the  remedies  we  apply  let  us  study 
her,  assist  her  operations,  return  to  her  paths.  Let  us  . 
search  out  the  original  causes  of  social  evils  and  errors, 
so  that  we  may  not  counteract  them,  but  undo  them  and 
retrace  them.  The  mischiefs  wrought  by  one  departure 
from  the  dictates  and  the  laws  of  nature,  do  not  endeavor 
to  cure  or  compensate  by  another.  Shun,  as  the  most 
fatal  of  blunders,  the  notion  that  the  first  egarcmcnt  can 
be  rectified  by  a  second.  Above  all,  be  very  slow  to 
accept  any  anomalies  or  sufferings  as  necessary  or  irreme- 
diable, and  to  treat  them  with  the  anodynes  prescril;ed 
by  hopelessness  or  incapacity.  Palliatives  and  narcotics 
are  for  ineradicable  and  inevitable  maladies :  Nature 
knows  few  such  in  the  physical,  fewer  still  in  the  politi- 
cal or  the  social  world.  When  we  have  discovered  wherein 
we  have  erred  and  why  we  are  diseased,  and  have  stepped 
back  into  the  honest  and  the  healthy  way,  and  cut  off 
the  source  of  the  disorder,  —  when  the  fons  et  origo  mali 
has  been  thus  dried  up,  —  then,  and  not  till  then,  may 
Ave  proceed  to  relieve  the  symptoms,  and  mitigate  the 
pain,  and  countervail  the  mischiefs  produced  by  the  wide- 
spread and  loHg-fostered  disease,  Avith  a  hearty  and  en- 
lightened zeal,  —  provided  only  Ave  are  sedulously  Avatch- 
ful  that  the  lenitives  Ave  administer  shall  not  be  of  a 
character  to  interfere  Avith  the  remedy  Ave  have  discovered 
and  prescribed. 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNDANT?        279 

Now  what  does  Nature  say  in  reference  to  the  case 
before  us  ?  By  dividing  and  proportioning  the  sexes,  by 
the  instincts  which  lie  deepest,  strongest,  and  most  unan- 
imously in  the  heart  of  humanity  at  large  in  all  times 
and  amid  all  people,  by  the  sentiments  which  belong  to 
all  healthy  and  unsophisticated  organizations  even  in  our 
own  complicated  civilization,  marriage,  the  union  of  one 
man  with  one  woman,  is  unmistakably  indicated  as  the 
despotic  law  of  life.  This  is  the  rule.  "We  need  not 
waste  words  in  justifying  the  assumption.  As  the 
French  proverb  says,  "On  ne  cherche  pas  a.prouver  la 
lumiere."  But  Nature  does  more  than  this :  she  not 
only  proclaims  the  rule,  "  she  distinctly  lays  down  the 
precise  amount  and  limits  of  the  exception.  In  all  coun- 
tries of  which  we  have  any  accurate  statistics,  tliere  are 
rather  more  women  than  men ;  the  excess  varying  from 
two  to  five  per  cent.  ^Vllerever,  from  accidental  or  arti- 
ficial causes,  this  proportion  is  much  disturbed,  the  sad- 
dest results  ensue.  Whether  this  very  moderate  excess 
points  towards  polygamy  or  celibacy  is  a  question  which 
on  these  bare  facts  alone  might  be  open  to  controversy. 
In  either  case,  the  limit  of  the  divergence  permissible 
from  the  general  law  is  definitely  fixed.  In  arguing  be- 
fore an  Emrlish  audience  we  need  not  discuss  the  former 
supposition ;  here,  at  least,  we  shall  not  be  accused  of 
going  one  step  beyond  the  boundaries  of  safe  and  modest 
inference,  when  we  assume  that  the  numerical  fact  we 
have  mentioned  points  out  the  precise  percentage  of  wo- 
men whom  Nature  designed  for  single  life,  and  that 
wherever  this  percentage  is  materially  exceeded,  the  dic- 
tates of  Nature  have  been  neglected,  silenced,  or  set  at 
naught. 

No  doubt  there  are  exceptional  organizations  in  both 
sexes ;  and  these  exceptions  are  likely  to  become  more 
numerous  in  proportion  as  civilization  grows  more  com- 
plex and  artificial.  There  are  men  who,  from  defective 
instincts,,  or  from  abnormal  cerebral  development,  or  from 
engrossing  devotion  to  some  jealous  and  exclusive  pur- 
suit, pass  through  life  alike  undisturbed  by  the  passion 


280  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

and  unsoftened  by  the  sentiment  of  love.  To  a  few,  cel- 
ibacy is  a  necessity ;  to  a  few,  probably,  a  natural  and 
easy  state  ;  to  yet  fewer,  a  high  vocation.  There  are  wo- 
men, though  we  believe  they  are  more  rare  than  any  other 
natural  anomalies,  who  seem  utterly  devoid  of  the  fibre 
feminin,  to  whom  Nature  never  speaks  at  all,  or  at  least 
speaks  not  in  her  tenderest  tones.  There  are  others  too 
passionately  fond  of  a  wild  independence  to  be  passion- 
ately fond  of  any  mate  ;  and  to  such  single  life  may 
spare  the  endurance  and  the  infliction  of  much  misery. 
There  are  some  who  seem  made  for  charitable  uses ; 
whose  heart  overflows  with  all  benevolent  emotions,  but 
the  character  of  whose  affection  is  rather  diffusive  than 
concentrated,  —  ideal  old  maids,  —  old  maids  ah  ovo. 
There  are  women  again  —  and  these  are  sometimes, 
though  but  seldom,  of  a  very  high  order  —  in  whom  the 
spiritual  so  predominates  over  the  other  elements  of  their 
being,  that  human  ties  and  feelings  seem  pale  and  poor 
by  the  side  of  the  divine ;  and  to  such  mamage  Avould 
appear  a  profanation,  and  would  assuredly  be  a  mistake. 
But  of  those  who  fancy  that  this  is  their  vocation,  the 
vast  majority  commit  a  fearful  and  a  fatal  error,  and 
awake  at  last  to  find  it  so  ;  and  to  those  who  are  really 
thus  called,  the  voice,  we  suspect,  comes  often er  from  a 
narrow  intelligence  or  a  defective  organization  than  from 
the  loftier  aspirings  of  the  soul,  v  Lastly,  there  are  wo- 
men who  are  really  almost  epicene  ;  whose  brains  are  so 
analogous  to  those  of  men,  that  they  run  nearly  in  the 
same  channels,  are  capable  nearly  of  the  same  toil, 
and  reach  nearly  to  the  same  heights ;  women  not 
merely  of  genius  (for  genius  is  often  purely  and  in- 
tensely feminine),  but  of  hard,  sustained,  effective 
2wii:cr ;  women  who  live  in  and  by  their  intelligence 
alone,  and  who  are  objects  of  admiration,  but  never 
of  tenderness,  to  the  other  sex.  Such  are  rightly  and 
naturally  single ;  but  they  are  abnormal  and  not  jierfect 
natures. 

The  above  classes  —  and  it  is  impossible  to  say  how 
few  individuals  they  honestly  comprise  ^\•llen   all   are 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNDANT]  281 

added  together  —  constitute  the  natural  cdihaics  among 
the  female  sex  ;  to  all  others  who  go  through  life  unmar- 
ried celibacy  is  unnatural,  even  though  it  may  in  one 
sense  be  voluntary.  Hundreds  of  women  remain  single 
in  our  distorted  civilization  because  they  have  never 
been  asked  at  all.  Thousands  remain  single  because  the 
offers  they  have-  received  threatened  to  expose  them  to 
privations  and  sacrifices  which  they  shrank  from  even 
more  than  from  celibacy.  Thousands  more,-  because  one 
abortive  love  in  the  past  has  closed  their  hearts  to  every 
other  sentiment ;  or  because  they  have  waited  long  years 
in  persistent  faith  and  silent  hope  for  that  one  special 
love  which  never  came ;  or  because  ambition  deluded 
them  into  setting  their  claims  higher  than  fate  or  fortune 
was  prepared  to  realize.  But  we  are  satisfied  that  no 
one  whose  experience  of  life  has  been  large,  whose  in- 
sight into  life  has  been  deep,  and  whose  questionings  of 
life  have  been  honest,  will  demur  to  our  assertion  that 
the  women  who  adopt  a  single  life  from  positive  (not 
relative)  choice,  —  we  do  not  say  from  preference,  but 
from  love,  —  who  deliberately  resolve  upon  celibacy  as 
that  which  they  like  for  itself,  and  not  as  a  mere  escape 
from  the  lottery  of  marriage,  —  will  not  in  their  combined 
numbers  exceed,  if  they  even  reach,  that  three  or  four 
per  cent,  for  whom,  as  statistics  show  us,  Nature  has 
provided  no  exclusive  partners.  The  residue  —  the  large 
excess  over  this  proportion  —  who  remain  unmarried, 
constitute  the  prohlevi  to  he  solved,  the  evil  and  anomaly  to 
he  C2cred. 

Without  affecting  an  accuracy  of  detail  which,  where 
figures  are  concerned,  is  always  ostentatious  and  usually 
perplexing,  the  law  which  determines  the  proportional 
numbers  of  the  sexes  may  be  thus  succinctly  stated  : 
There  are  usually  about  104  or  105  males  born  to  every 
100  females ;  but  as  mortality  among  males  at  all  ages 
exceeds  that  of  females,  the  number  of  the  latter  actually 
living  is  always  greater  than  the  number  of  the  former. 
In  countries  wliere  the  natural  proportion  has  not  been 
materially  disturbed  by  emigration,  immigration,  deso- 


282  LTTERAKY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

lating  or  prolonged  wars,  or  other  artificial  caiises,  the 
excess  of  females  would  appear  to  be  about  two  per 
cent.* 

In  Great  Britain,  to  wliicli  we  shall  in  future  confine 
our  attention,  tlio  actual  excess  is  above  ilircc  per  cent, 
there  being  103.3  females  actually  living  for  every  100 
males,  a  proportion,  however,  which  has  unquestional^ly 
been  enhanced  by  emigration.  But  as  in  the  earlier  years 
of  life  the  p]»oj)ortion  is  in  the  other  direction,  the  excess 
of  grown  women  over  grovm  men  is  much  more  than  tliree 
per  cent.  Between  the  ages  of  twenty  and  sixty  years 
it  is  about  five  and  a  half  per  cent,  and-  after  that  still 
larger :  so  that  after  twenty  years  of  age  Ave  may  state 
broadly  that  about  106  women  are  to  be  found  for  eveiy 
100  men.  Now,  if  we  are  correct  in  assuming  (as  we 
believe  "sve  are)  that  in  a  thoroughly  natural,  sound,  and 
satisfactory  state  of  society,  all  women,  as  a  rule,  above 
twenty  years  of  age  —  except  the  redundant  six  per  cent 
for  ivhovi  equivalent  men  do  not  exist  here — would  be 
married,-}"  then  the  number  (over  six  per  cent)  who  are 
single  may  be  taken  as  the  measure  of  our  departure  from 
that  healthy  and  prosperous  condition.  The  proportion 
of  women  above  twenty  years  of  age,  then,  who  nuist 
and  ovglit  to  be  single  being  six  per  cent,  the  actual  pro  - 
portion  who  cire  single  is  thirty  ^?f?'  cent.  According  to 
the   Registrar-General,  "Out  of   every  100  females  of 

*  The  following  table  is  given  in  the  Supplement  to  the  Report  of 
the  Statistical  Congress  •which  met  in  Paris,  and  may  be  regarded  as 
approximately  correct  for  five  out  of  the  seven  cases  : 

England  (1S51)      .  .  .  103.29  females  to  100  males. 

France         ,,     •  •  •         101. OS        ,,  ,,  " 

Turkey  (1S44)         .  .  .   101.62        „  ,, 

Austria  (1840)  .  .    •         .         102.09        „ 

Prussia  (1849)        .  .  .  100.07        „ 

Russia  (1855) .  .  .         101.60       ,,  ,, 

United  States  (1850)  .  .     95.02       ,,  ,, 

t  This  is  ajiparently  a  perfectly  legitimate  assumption  ;  since  the 
number  of  women  who  will  marry  before  their  twentieth  year  may  be 
set  off  against  those  who  voluntarily  defer  their  marriage  altogether. 
Even  in  England,  the  country  par  excellence  of  late  marriages,  two  and 
a  half  per  cent  of  the  females  between  fifteen  and  twenty  yeare  of  age 
are  married. 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNDANT?  283 

twenty  years  of  age  and  upwards,  fifty-seven  are  wives, 
thirteen  are  widows,  and  thirty  are  spinsters."  * 

To  reduce  proportlo7is  to  actual  numbers,  and  thus 
bring  the  facts  more  clearly  before  our  readers'  minds, 
we  will  quote  another  statement  of  the  Eegistrar-General. 
There  were  in  England  and  Wales,  in  1851,  1,248,000 
women  in  the  prime  of  life,  i.  e.  between  the  ages  of 
twenty  and  forty  years,  who  were  unmarried,  out  of  a 
total  number  of  rather  less  than  3,000,000.  According 
to  our  assumption,  there  ought  only  to  have  been  150,000 
(or  five  per  cent)  in  that  condition,  which  would  leave 
1,100,000  women  in  the  best  and  most  attractive  period 
of  life,  who  must  be  classed  as  unnaturally,  if  not  all 
unintentionally,  single.  There  is  no  need,  however,  to 
place  either  figures  or  inferences  in  too  strong  a  light; 
and  as  unquestionably  many  women  do  marry  between 
the  ages  of  twenty  and  thirty  years,  we  may  perhaps  re- 
duce the  number  of  those  who  are  spinsters,  in  conse- 
quence of  social  disorders  or  anomalies  of  some  sort,  and 
not  from  choice,  to  about  750,000,  or  three  quarters  of  a 
million,  —  a  figure  large  enough  in  all  conscience.- 

"We  have  now  to  consider  to  what  causes  this  startling 
anomaly  is  to  be  traced,  and  by  what  means  it  may  be 
cured;  for  as  we  premised  at  the  outset,  we  must  search 
for  remedies  before  we  can  safely  begin  to  think  of  ap- 
plying anodynes.  The  chief  causes  we  shall  find  to  be 
three  in  number:  the  first  we  shall  notice  is  Emigration. 

I.  In  the  last  forty-five  years,  upwards  of  5,000,000 
persons  have  definitively  left  our  shores  to  find  new 
homes  either  in  our  various  colonies  or  in  the  United 
States.  Of  this  number  we  know  that  the  vast  majority 
were  men,  though  the  proportions  of  the  sexes  has,  we 
believe,  been  nowhere  published.  A  considerable  amount 
of  that  excess  of  women,  which  we  have  recorded  as  pre- 
vailing, in  the  mother  country,  is  thus  at  once  accounted 
for,  and  is  shown  to  be  artificial  and  not  natural,  appar- 
ent rather  than  real.     Nature  makes  no  mistakes ;  Na- 

*  Population  Return,  1851,  Vol.  II.  p.  clxv. 


284 


LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 


ture  lias  no  redundancies  ;  and,  as  we  shall  presently  see, 
the  excess  here  li  counterbalanced  by  a  corresponding  de- 
ficiency elsewhere. 

In  the  North  American  colonies  the  proportion  is  as 
follows  :  — 


Excess  of 
Males. 


Canada  (Census  of  1851) 
Newfoundland  (Census  of  1857) 
NewBninswick(Censusof  1851) 
Nova  Scotia  (Census  of  1861) 
Prince  Edward  Island  (Census 
of  1861) 


Males. 

Females. 

Total. 

949,034 

64,268 

99,526 

165,584 

40,880 

893,231 
58,370 
94,274 

165,273 

39,977 

1,842,265 
122,638 
193,800 
300,857 

80,857 

1,319,292 

1,251,125 

2,570,417 

55,803 

5,898 

5,252 

311 

903 

68,167 


In  the  Australian  colonies  the  following  is  the  propor- 
tion:— 

Population  of  Australia  and  New  Zealand. 


Tear. 

Colony 

Males. 

Females. 

Total. 

Excess  of 
Males. 

1860 
1861 

New  South  Wales 

213,021 
328,651 
59,678 
9,843 
16,817 
48,602 
45,341 

147,406 
211,671 
58,289 
5,750 
11,239 
39,173 
34,284 

360,427 
540,322 
117,967 
15,593 
28,056 
87,775 
79,625 

65,615 

116,980 

1,389 

4,093 

5,578 

1860 
1861 
1860 

South  Australia     . 
Western  Australia 

1860 

Tasmania      .     .     . 

9,429 
11,057 

1860 

New  Zealand     .     . 

Total     .     .     .• 

721,953 

507,812 

1,229,765 

214,141 

In  1840  (we  still  depend  on  the  Eegistrar-General)  the 
total  excess  of  males  over  females  in  the  United  States 
was  309,000;  the  excess,  after  the  age  of  twenty,  was 
198,000.  This  disproportion  has  assuredly  been  largely 
aggravated  since,  and  we  sliall  be  within  the  mark  if  we 
assume  that  at  least  250,000  adult  women  are  needed  in 
America  to  redress  the  balance  among  the  free  white 
population  of  that  country.     The  deficiency  of  female  life 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNDANT?  285 

there  is,  as  nearly  as  possible,  the  same  as  the  redundancy 
in  England,  namely,  Jive  per  cent. 

It  will  be  observed  that  all  we  are  able  to  give  in  these 
latter  cases  is  the  entire  aggregate  excess  of  males ;  but 
since  nearly  tlie  same  proportion  between  the  total  fig- 
ures and  the  figures  above  twenty  years  of  age  may  be 
assumed  to  prevail  there  as  elsewhere,  we  shall  be  quite 
safe  in  the  following  table  :  — 

Deficiency  of  women  over  20  years,  —  United  States   .       .  250, 000 
,,  ,,  ,,  Canadian  Colonies         45,000 

„  „  „  Australian  Colonies .  145,000 

440,000 

Now  the  excess  of  women  over  twenty  years  of  age  in 
Great  Britain  in  1851  was  405,000.  It  appears,  there- 
fore, on  the  aggregate,  that  more  women  are  wanted  in 
those  new  countries  which  took  their  rise  hence  than  the 
mother  country  could  supply  them  with.  If  the  redun- 
dant numbers  here  were  transported  thither,  they  would 
scarcely  be  filled,  and  we  should  be  denuded.  Further, 
such  an  exodus,  such  a  natural  rectification  of  dispropor- 
tions, would  reduce  the  unmarried  adult  women  in  Eng- 
land and  Wales  from  1,100,000  to  660,000,  from  more 
than  a  million  to  little  over  half  a  million.  Nay,  more, 
it  would  do  this  at  once  and  diixctly ;  it  would  do  nmch 
more  secondarily  and  indirectly ;  such  a  vast  reduction 
in  the  redundant  numbers  could  not  fail  to  augment  the 
value  of,  and  the  demand  for,  the  remainder. 

These  figures,  then,  clearly  indicate,  and  even  loudly 
proclaim,  the  first  remedy  to  be  applied.  We  must  re- 
dress the  balance.  We.  must  restore  by  an  emigration  of 
women  that  natural  proportion  between  the  sexes  in  the 
old  country  and  in  the  new  ones,  which  was  disturbed 
by  an  emigration  of  men,  and  the  disturbance  of  which 
has  wrought  so  much  mischief  in  both  lands.  There  are, 
however,  two  serious  difficulties  in  the  way  ;  but  difficul- 
ties are  only  obstacles  to  be  overcome  :  —  as  soon  as  we 
see  with  sufficient  clearness  and  feel  with  sufficient  con- 
viction the  course  that  ought  to  be  pursued,  we  cannot 


286  LITERACY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

doubt  that  some  practicable  mode  will   be  devised  in 
wliich  it  can  be  pursued. 

The  first  difticulty  is  chiefly  mechanical.  It  is  not 
easy  to  convey  a  nudtitude  of  women  across  the  Atlantic, 
or  to  the  antipodes,  by  any  ordinary  means  of  transit.  To 
transport  the  half-million  from  where  they  are  redundant 
to. where  they  are  wanted,  at  an  average  rate  of  fifty  pas- 
sengers in  each  ship,  would  require  10,000  vessels,  or  at 
least  10,000  voyages.  Still,  as  350,000  emigrants  have 
left  our  shores  in  a  single  year  before  now,  and  as  we  do 
not  need  and  do  not  wish  to  expatriate  the  wliole  num- 
ber at  once,  or  with  any  great  rapidity,  the  undertaking, 
though  difficult,  would  seem  to  be  quite  possible.  But 
far  the  greater  portion  of  the  350,000  emigrants  were 
bound  for  the  shorter  voyage  to  America,  and  of  the 
440,000  women  wdio  should  emigrate,  the  larger  number 
are  wanted  for  the  longer  voyage  to  Australia.  Still  it 
would  be  feasible  enough  to  find  passenger  ships  to  take 
out  10,000,  20,000,  or  40,000  every  year,  if  they  were 
men.  But  to  contrive  some  plan  of  taking  out  such  a 
number  of  women,  especially  on  a  three  months'  voyage, 
in  comfort,  in  safety,  and  in  honor,  is  a  problem  yet  to  be 
solved.  We  all  may  remember  that  the  attempt  was 
made  by  a  Female  Emigration  Society,  set  on  foot  many 
years  ago  by  the  late  excellent  and  benevolent  Lord  Her- 
bert ;  but  the  results  were  such  as  effectually  prevented  a 
repetition  of  the  experiment,  —  at  least  in  the  same  man- 
ner and  on  the  same  scale.  To  send  only  a  few  women 
in  each  ship,  and  with  adequate  protectors,  in  no  degree, 
met  the  requirements  of  the  case  ;  and  to  send  large  num- 
bers, over  whom  no  such  guardianship  could  be  exercised, 
and  among  whom  were  certain  to  be  found  some  who 
would  set  the  example  and  smooth  the  way  to  evil,  led 
to  such  deplorable  disorders  as  discredited  the  whole 
scheme,  and  caused  its  prompt  abandonment.  One  ad- 
mirable and  sagacious  lady,  however,  was  not  to  be 
thus  discouraged.  Discerning  clearly  what  was  wanted, 
and  devoting  her  energies  and  personal  superintendence 
to  the  task,  Mrs.  Caroline  Chisholm  established  herself 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNBANT  ]  287 

in  Sydney,  made  arrangements  for  receiving  young  fe- 
male emigrants  as  they  landed  into  a  comfortable  and 
well-ordered  home,  and  forwarded  them  into  the  interior 
under  the  charge  of  respectable  families,  from  whose  roof 
they  were  married  as  fast  as  they  chose.  Occasionally 
she  took  them  up  the  country  herself,  under  proper  es- 
cort, and  in  considerable  numbers,  and  located  them 
wlierever  she  found  that  their  services  were  required, 
and  their  position  would  be  safe.  Including  families  and 
single  women,  she  is  said  to  have  comfortably  settled 
eleven  thousand  souls.  She  afterwards  came  to  England 
and  organized  "The  Family  Colonization  Society,"  the 
object  of  which  was  to  send  out  young  women  of  good 
character  and  suitable  capacities  and  health,  under  the 
charge  of  married  couples,  or  in  extemporized  "  family 
groups,"  — tlius  aftbrding  them  the  protection  and  con- 
trol often  so  sorely  needed,  both  on  the  voyage  and  on 
their  arrival  in  the  land  of  their  adoption.  The  scheme 
was  admirable,  and  its  success  has  been  very  great ;  *  the 
only  drawback  is,  that  the  scale  of  the  proceedings  has 
been  necessarily  so  limited  that  it  is  scarcely  more  than 
taking  a  drop  out  of  an  overflowing  cistern  to  pour  it  on 
a  thirsty  desert.  We  want  fifty  Mrs.  Chisholms,  with 
government  aid  and  government  protection  to  whatever 
extent  and  in  whatever  form  might  be  required,  and 
this  part  of  the  problem  would  be  solved.  We  are  by 
no  means  blind  to  the  practical  impediments  which  must 
meet  any  extensive  scheme  of  female  emigration  :  all 
we  wish  to  point  out  is,  that  if  the  mind  of  Australia  and 
the  mind  of  England  were  both  adequately  impressed 
with  the  necessity  of  solving  the  problem  in  the  natural 
way,  —  if  the  250,000  unmatched  men  in  the  colonies 
were  determined  to  have  wives,  and  a  proportionate  num- 
ber of  unprotected  women  in  the  mother  country  were 
determined  to  have  husbands,  —  means  could  and  would 
be    found    of   bringing  the  supply  and  the  demand  to- 

*  Story  of  the  Life  of  Mrs.  Caroline  Chisholm  :  with  the  Tailes  of  the 
Family  Colouization  Society.  Trelawiiaj  Saunders,  Charing  Cross, 
London. 


288  LTTEIIAKY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

gctlier.  The  subject  lias  again  Leen  Ijrought  before  the 
l)ublic  by  two  hulies  who  are  pursuing  a  most  useful  ca- 
reer of  judicious  benevolence,  for  the  service  and  to  the 
credit  of  their  sex, —  Miss  Emily  Faithfull  and  Miss 
Maria  Rye.  They  find  plenty  of  women  of  all  ranks 
willing  and  anxious  to  go  out ;  but  as  yet  tlie  funds  are 
wanting  and  the  organization  is  in  its  infancy. 

The  second  difiiculty  is  of  adifierent  cliaracter.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  that  three  or  four  hundred  thousand 
women  who  are  condemned  to  celibacy,  struggle,  and 
privation  here,  might,  if  transfeiTed  to  the  colonies  or  the 
United  States,  find  in  exchange  a  life,  not  indeed  of  ease, 
but  of  usefulness,  happiness,  domestic  affection,  reason- 
able comfort,  and  ultimate  prosperity.  But  the  class  of 
women  who  are  redundant  here  is  not  exactly  the*  class 
wanted  in  the  colonies,  or  specially  adapted  for  colonial 
life.  The  women  most  largely  wanted  there  would  be 
found  among  the  working  classes,  and  in  the  lower  ranks 

fef  the  middle  classes  :  the  women  who  are  mostly  redun- 
dant, the  "  involuntary  celibates  "  in  England,  are  chiefly 
to  be  found  in  the  upper  and  educated  sections  of  society. 
Among  the  agricultural  and  manufacturing  population, 
who  earn  their  daily  bread  by  daily  labor,  comparatively 
few  women  remain  long  or  permanently  single.  It  is 
]  those  immediately  and  those  far  above  them  —  who  have 
i  a  i^osition  to  maintain  and  appearances  to  keep  iip,  who 
j  are  too  proud  to  sink,  too  sensitive  to  contrive,  too  refined 
or  too  delicate  to  toil,  or  too  sj^oiled  to  purchase  love  at 
the  expense  of  luxury  —  that  chiefly  recruit  tlie  ranks  of 
the  old  maids.  The  redundancy,  in  a  \vord,  is  not  in  the 
emigrating  class.  This  is  true,  no  doubt ;  but  we  have 
two  remarks  to  make  in  reference  thereto.  The  first  is, 
that  a  removal  of  superfluous  numbers,  in  whatever  rank, 
/  cannot  fail  gradually  and  indirectly  to  afford  relief  to  the 
whole  body  corpoi-ate ;  just  as  bleeding  in  the  foot  will 
i\  relieve  the  head  or  the  lieartfrom  distressing  and  perilous 
v.  congestion.  The  second  is,  that  we  can  see  no  reason, 
pride  apart,  why  female  emigration  should  not  be  pro- 
portionate from  all  ranks.     Many  gentlemen  have  gone 


WHY.  ARE  WOMEN  EEDUNDANT  1  289 

to  New  Zealand  and  Australia,  and  many  more  to  Canada, 
preferring  a  life  of  honorable  industry  and  eventual 
abundance  in  a  new  country  to  hollow  and  pretentious 
penury  at  home  :  why  should  not  a  relative  number  of 
ladies  display  similar  good  sense  and  sound  appreciation 
of  the  realities  of  earthly  felicity  ?  The  class  of  women, 
again,  who  perhaps  are  more  extensively  redundant  in 
England  than  any  other,  are  those  immcdiatchj  above  tlie 
laboring  poor,  those  who  swell  the  ranks  of  "  distressed 
needlewomen,"  those  who  as  milliners'  apprentices  so  fre- 
quently fall  victims  to  temptation  or  to  toil,  the  daughters 
of  unfortunate  tradesmen,  of  poor  clerks,  or  poorer  curates. 
Now  these,  though  neither  as  hardy  nor  as  well  trained 
for  the  severe  labors  of  a  colonial  life  as  dairymaids, 
have  all  been  disciplined  in  the  appropriate  school  of 
poverty  and  exertion,  and  if  their  superior  instruction  and 
refinement  added  to  their  difhculties  in  one  way,  it  would 
certainly  smooth  them  in  another ;  for  of  all  qualities 
which  education  surely  and  universally  confers,  tliat  of 
adaptability  is  the  most  renlarkable. 

II.  In  female  emigration,  then,  must  be  sought  the 
rectification  of  that  disturbance  in  the  normal  proportions 
between  men  and  women  which  the  excess  of  male 
emigration  has  created.  But  when  this  remedy  has  been 
applied  as  extensively  as  shall  be  found  feasible,  there 
will  still  remain  a  large  "  residual  phenomenon  "  to  be 
dealt  with.  We  have  seen  that  the  extensive  annual 
exodus  from  Great  Britain,  which  has  now  grown  almost 
into  a  national  habit,  has  only  raised  the  excess  of  adult 
women  to  about  six  per  cent,  whereas  the  proportion  of 
adult  women  who  are  unmarried  is  thirty  per  cent.  The 
second  cause  for  this  vast  amount  of  supernormal  celibacy 
is  undoubtedly  to  be  found  in  the  growing  and  morbid 
LUXURY  of  the  age.  The  number  of  women  who  remain 
unmarried,  because  marriage  —  such  marriage,  that  is,  as 
is  within  their  reach,  or  may  be  offered  them  —  would  en- 
tail a  sacrifice  of  that  "  position  "  which-  they  value  more 
than  the  attractions  of  domestic  life,  is  considerable   in 

13  S 


290  LITERARY   AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

the  middle  ranks,  and  is  enormous  in  the  higher  ranks. 
This  word  "  position  "  we  use  as  one  which  includes  iall 
the  various  forms  and  disguises  which  the  motive  in 
question  puts  on.  Sometimes  it  is  luxury  proper  wliich  is 
thus  inordinately  valued, —  dainty  living,  splendid  dress- 
ing, large  houses,  carriages  ad  libitum,  gay  society,  and 
exoneration  from  all  useful  exertion.  Sometimes  it  is  the 
more  shadowy  sentiment  which  values  these  tilings,  not 
for  themselves, —  for  to  many  they  are  wearisome  even  to 
nausea, — hut  for  their  appearance.  Hundreds  of  women 
would  he  really  hapjiicr  in  a  simpler  and  less  lazy  life, 
and  know  it  well ;  but  to  accept  that  life  would  he,  or 
would  be  deemed  to  be,  a  derogation  from  their  social 
status ;  a  virtual  ejection,  to  a  greater  or  less  degree,  from 
that  society,  that  mode  of  existence,  which  they  do  not 
enjoy,  but  cannot  make  up  their  minds  to  surrender. 
Hundreds  again  —  probably  thousands  —  forego  the  joys 
of  married  life,  not  because  they  really  cling  to  unrelished 
luxuries  or  empty  show,  but  because  they  shrink  from  the 
loss  of  those  actual  comforts  which  refined  taste  or  deli- 
cate organizations  render  almost  indispensable,  and  which 
it  is  supposed  (often  most  erroneously)  that  a  small  in- 
come could  not  sufficiently  procure.  They  would  will- 
ingly give  up  carriages,  expensive  dresses,  and  laborious 
pleasure,  but  they  must  have  tolerably  ample  and  ele- 
gantly furnished  rooms,  leisure  for  reading,  occasional 
"  outings,"  and  intercourse  with  chosen  friends.  They 
don't  wish  to  be  idle,  but  they  are  not  prepared  to  become 
drudges,  —  either  mere  nursemaids  or  mere  housewives. 
To  these  must  be  added,  as  belonging  in  justice  to  the 
same  category,  those  to  whom  men,  who  might  otherwise 
love  and  choose  them,  abstain  from  offering  marriage,  under 
the  impression  tliat  the  sentiments  we  have  described  are 
the  sentiments  they  entertain.  Very  often  this  impres- 
sion is  wholy  erroneous  ;  very  often  these  women  would 
thankfully  surrender  all  those  external  advantages,  to 
which  they  are  supposed  to  be  so  wedded,  for  the  sake  of 
sharing  a  comparatively  humble  and  unluxurious  home 
with  men  whom  they  regard  and  esteem.     But  their  own 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNDANT]        291 

language,  their  own  conduct,  or  the  habitual  tone  of  the 
society  to  wliich  they  belong,  has  warranted  and  created 
tlie  impression ;  and  therefore  the  fault  as  well  as  the 
penalty  is  theirs. 

Quite  as  many  men  —  probably  far  more  —  share  these 
sentiments,  form  tlie  same  estimates,  and  come  to  the 
same  conclusions.  They  are  loath  to  resign  the  easy  in- 
dependence, the  exceptional  luxuries,  the  habitual  in- 
dulgences of  a  bachelor's  career,  for  the  fetters  of  a  wife, 
the  burden  and  responsibility  of  children,  and  the  decent 
monotony  of  the  domestic  hearth.  They  dread  family 
ties  more  than  they  yearn  for  family  joys.  Possibly  they 
do  not  care  much  about  a  carriage  themselves,  but  they 
would  not  like  their  wife  to  be  without  it.  They  shrink 
from  the  additional  exertion  and  the  additional  self-denial 
which  marriage  and  its  issues  would  demand  ;  and  the 
visions  of  delicate  children,  and  a  sick  or  languid  mother, 
to  whom  they  could  not  give  all  the  comforts  and  al- 
leviations and  advantages  they  would  desire,  mingle  with 
the  reflection  of  the  club  they  nmst  cease  to  frequent,  the 
gay  society  in  which  they  would  no  longer  be  sought,  and 
the  social  rank  which,  in  fancy  at  least,  they  must  step 
out  of,  to  deter  them  from  an  irremediable  proceeding. 

Now,  with  respect  to  those  women  who  really  and  de- 
liberately prefer  the  unsatisfying  pleasures  of  luxury  and 
splendor  to  the  possible  sacrifices  of  married  life,  we  have 
no  compassion  for  them,  and  need  not  waste  much  thought 
iu  endeavoring  to  avert  the  penalty  of  their  unwholesome 
preference.  Their  hearts  must  be  unusually  cold,  and 
their  heads  unusually  astray.  But  numbers  would  make  a 
wiser  and  a  nobler  choice,  if  they  listened  to  the  prompt- 
ings of  their  better  nature,  and  if  it  were  not  for  tiie 
double  error,  —  that  the  luxuries  and  social  occupations 
and  appliances  around  tliem  really  confer  much  enjoy- 
ment, and  might  not  be  easily  foregone,  —  and  that  a  very 
great  amount,  perhaps  all  that  is  really  indispensable,  of 
refinement  and  of  comfort  cannot  be  secured  with  com- 
paratively scanty  means.  Much  nonsense  has  been 
written,  on  both  sides,  about   "love  iu  a  cottage,"   and 


292  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

"  managing  on  £  300  a  year,"  and  "  keejiing  up  ai:)pear- 
nces,"  and  the  grave  realities  which  those  "  apjiear- 
ances "  often  imply ;  and  we  have  no  intention  of 
broaching  any  extravagances  as  to  any  of  these  theses. 
We  fully  admit  that  a  position  which  would  trample  upon 
rftal  refinement  can  afford  no  liappiness  to  those  in  whose 
natures  refinement  is  an  ingrained  element.  We  are 
only  too  well  aware  that  defective  health  often  renders 
that  an  absolute  necessity  to  some  which  to  hardier  frames 
is  a  superfluity  easily  dispensed  with.  We  quite  agree 
that  it  is,  for  most  persons,  wise  before  entering  on  the 
married  state  to  consider  not  only  its  obvious  and  prob- 
able, but  many  of  its  merely  possible,  contingencies,  and 
to  sit  down  carefully  find  count  the  cost,  and  their  own 
means,  both  in  purse  and  in  character,  of  meeting  it.  We 
have  not  a  word  to  say  —  at  least,  we  are  not  going  to 
say  a  word  —  against  that  facile,  scented,  and  feather-bed 
existence,  which  a  complicated  and  elaborate  civilization 
renders  so  common  and  so  tempting.  Material  enjoy- 
ment, where  it  is  neither  coarse  nor  vicious,  is  a  very 
good  thing,  which  no  sensible  layman  will  waste  breath 
in  denouncing  or  depreciating.  But  what  we  wish  to 
represent,  and  what  we  would  entreat  our  countrymen 
and  countrywomen  to  consider  is  this :  that  a  very 
large  proportion  of  those  luxuries,  —  whether  the  lusts 
of  the  flesh  or  the  lusts  of  the  eye,  or  the  hollow  gauds 
of  pride, —  which  so  foster  the  mistake  of  female  celibacy 
in  the  educated  classes,  are  neither  necessary  to  the  en- 
joyment of  life,  nor  really  contribute  to  it ;  that  those 
who  have  them  are  often  juuch  less  happy  than  those 
\vho  have  them  not ;  they  are  factitious  ;  they  are  unre- 
munerative ;  and  in  remaining  single  in  order  to  retain 
them,  both  men  and  women  are  sacrificing  a  reality  for 
that  which  is,  and  is  constantly  felt  to  be,  as  very  a 
shadow  and  simulacrum  as  ever  mocked  the  desert  travel- 
ler thirsting  for  the  substantial  and  refreshing  waters  of 
life.  Let  folks  live  for  pleasure  if  they  will ;  let  them 
l)lace  their  happiness  in  earthen  vessels,  and  their  joy  in 
empty  pageants,  if  so  their  vicious  training  or  theii'  shallow 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNDANT]        293 

natures  shall  delude  them  ;  but  at  least  let  that,  for  which 
they  forego  what  ive  hold  to  be  far  better,  be  something 
which  they  really  relish,  and  feel  to  be  a  treasure,  not 
merely  something  which  tliey  fancy,  and  which  others 
tell  them,  they  onglit  to  value  and  delight  in. 

People,  moreover,  are  under  a  great  delusion  as  to  the 
incompatibility  of  a  moderate  income  with  most  of  the 
essential  refinements,  and  even  elegances,  as  well  as 
comforts,  of  life.  There  is  some  truth  in  the  idea,  but 
the  extent  to  which  they  push  it  is  the  reverse  of  true. 
The  reason  why  substantial  elegances  and  refinements 
are  so  often  forfeited  by  those  who  marry  upon  small 
means  is,  that  deceptive  appearances  are  not  surrendered. 
Many  an  income  is  amply  sufficient  to  supply  all  that 
simple  taste  and  a  keen  sense  of  comfort  demand, — 
books  and  leisure  for  reading  them,  servants  enougli  to 
spare  the  mistress  of  the  house  from  becoming  eitlier  a 
drudge,  a  slattern,  or  an  invalid,  and  change  of  air  and 
scene  enough  for  health  of  mind  and  body,  —  which  is 
quite  inadequate  to  afford  tliese  things,  and  sliow  and 
style  as  well,  —  a  butler  or  a  footman,  costly  and  tedious 
dinner-parties,  much  visiting,  or  excursions  in  the  height 
of  the  season  to  crowded  and  fashionable  watering-places. 
No  one  who  has  seen  the  better  side  of  French,  or  Swiss, 
or  Italian  family  life,  or  who  has  been  admitted  to  the 
intimacy  of  some  of  the  well-regulated  homes  which  are 
to  be  found  among  the  more  sensible,  independent,  and 
refined  of  our  middle  classes,  will  be  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand what  we  mean,  or  will  hesitate  to  admit  its  accu- 
racy.*    Hundreds  of  families  do  contrive  to  combine  the 

*  We  have  been  at  some  pains  (whenever  an  opportunity  has  presented 
itself)  to  analyze  the  reasons  which  make  a  very  moderate  income  (say 
£  400  or  £  500  a  year)  amply  sufficient  to  maintain  a./ami/y  in  eleejance, 
comfort,  and  cultivated  refinement  in  other  countries,  and  wholly  in- 
adequate in  England  ;  and  when  rigidly  examined  and  piirsiOii  home 
to  ultimate  facts,  it  is  astonishing  to  discover  how  little  is  to  be  attribu- 
ted to  difference  of  cost  in  the  necessaries  of  life.  The  real  cliflercnce 
lies,  not  in  comfort,  not  in  luxuries,  not  in  social  enjoyments,  but  in 
style  of  living,  in  things  which  either  do  not  contribute  to  happiness,  or 
■which  do  so  only  because  others  have  them  and  therefore  we  want  them, 
or  which,  as  far  as  really  enjoyable  or  needed,  could  be  had  in  a  far 


204  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

highest  culture  and  the  most  essential  comfort,  as  well 
as  all  the  loveliest  and  happiest  affections,  with  means 
which,  to  tliose  wlio  sul)mit  to  he  the  tame  slaves  and 
tlie  ready  echoes  of  the  world's  commands,  would  appear, 
and  would  be,  scanty  even  for  single  life;  and  they  effect 
this  by  the  simple  art  of  grasping  at  essentials  instead 
of  accidents,  and  substances  instead  of  shows.  We  have 
not  the  faintest  hesitation  in  affirming  that  one  half  of 
tliose  of  both  sexes  who  now  imagine  themselves  doomed 
to  celibacy,  on  pain  of  squalor  or  derogation,  might  marry 
with  perfect  sufety  if  oidy  their  epicureanism  (without 
being  in  any  degree  diminished)  were  rationalized  enough 
to  induce  them  to  insist  merely  upon  such  appliances  as 
in  sober  verity  constituted  or  enhanced  the  felicity  and 
the  luxury  of  existence.* 

Connected  with  this  part  of  the  subject  we  must  enu- 
merate one  more  fruitful  source  of  female  celibacy, — 
domestic  service.  The  numljer  of  women  servants  in  Great 
Britain,  nearly  all  of  whom  are  necessarily  single,  is  as- 
tonishing. In  1851  it  reached  905,165,  and  must  now 
reach  at  least  a  million.     Of  these  905,165,  582,261  were 

cheaper  form. .  Some  day  we  hope  to  be  able  to  go  to  the  bottom  of  this 
matter. 

*  We  may  here  notice,  in  passing,  one  not  unfreqnent  canse  of  female 
celibacy  among  the  humbler  classes,  namely,  education.  Many  girls  in 
rather  humble  life  are  now  so  well  educated,  and  in  the  course  of  that 
education,  and  as  a  consequence  of  the  intercourse  it  sometimes  involves 
with  those  above  them,  acquire  so  strong  a  taste  for  refinement  of  mind 
and  courtesy  of  manners,  that  the  comparative  roughness  and  coarseness 
of  the  men  in  their  own  rank  of  life,  among  whom  they  would  naturally 
look  for  husbands,  become  repulsive  to  them  ;  while  at  the  same  time 
their  ow'n  training  and  acquirements  scarcely  qualily  them  to  match  on 
fair  terms  with  those  above  them.  Their  jjosition  thus  becomes  an 
essentially  false  and  perilous  one  ;  their  very  superiority  even  is  more  of 
a  danger  than  a  safeguard  ;  they  are  attractive  to,  and  attracted  by, 
men  whose  notice  is  sure  to  bring  them  mischief  ;  from  among  them 
come  many  of  the  most  elegant  of  the  fillcs  entretcniocs  ;  and  to  their 
accession  is  in  a  great  degree  to  be  attributed  the  marked  im])rovement 
observable  in  the  character  and  manners  of  this  class  of  late  years. 
We  do  not  see  how  this  incidental  evil  is  to  be  averted;  but  its  existence  is 
indubitable,  and  should  be  noted.  Anything  which  raises  women  above 
those  whom  alone,  unless  in  very  exceptional  cases,  they  can  expect  to 
marry,  may  be  a  good  thing,  but  in  the  present  state  of  the  English 
community  it  is  a  clearly  purchased  one. 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN   REDUNDANT?  295 

twenty  years  of  age  and  upwards.  This  is  a  social  phe- 
nomenon in  all  civilized  countries,  though  probably  no- 
where on  so  great  a  scale  as  with  us ;  it  would  appear  to 
be  u  permanent  and  a  necessary  one  ;  and  probably  in  its 
essence  and  within  due  limits  is  not  to  be  found  fault 
with  or  deplored.  That  there  are  some  evils  connected 
with  it  is  indisputable.  No  doubt  many  of  these  girls 
are  exposed  to  considerable  hardships.  More  probably 
are  exposed  to  great  temptations.  Thousands  of  them 
live  in  a  degree  of  comfort,  and  even  luxury,  which  they 
would  forfeit  if  they  married  in  their  own  rank  and  de- 
scended to  a  cottage  or  a  garret  of  their  own,  and  the 
unwillingness  to  forfeit  which  makes  them  cling  to  single 
servitude  as  preferable  to  conjugal  and  maternal  cares 
and  joys.  Thousands  of  them  also  acquire  that  percep- 
tion of,  and  taste  for,  refined  manners  and  modes  of  life 
which  are  only  to  be  found  in  the  families  of  the  upper 
ranks,  which  gradually  become  almost  indispensable  to 
them,  and  which  we.  have  just  alluded  to  in  a  note  as 
constituting  one  of  the  dangers  of  the  better  educated 
daughters  of  the  poor.  Lastly,  all  of  them,  or  nearly 
all,  from  years  spent  in  a  state  of  dependence  and  of 
plenty,  in  which  everything  is  supplied  to  them  and 
arranged  for  them  without  trouble  or  forethought  of  their 
own,  lose  or  never  acquire  that  managing  faculty  and 
those  provident  habits  which  would  fit  them  to  conduct 
a  household  of  their  own.  If  girls  usually  entered  do- 
mestic service,  as  the  Lowell  factory  girls  in  America 
enter  the  cotton-mills,  only  for  a  few  years,  to  acquire  prac- 
tice and  to  lay  up  a  dowry,  it  might  only  have  the  effect 
of  postponing  their  marriage  to  a  prudent  age  ;  but  as  it 
prevails  among  us,  it  is  inimical  to  marriage  altogether. 

The  special  remark,  however,  which  we  have  to  make 
upon  this  matter,  as  bearing  on  our  present  subject,  is 
t\\nX,  female  servants  do  not  constitute  ami  iiart  (or  at  least 
only  a  very  small  part)  of  the,  prohleyn  ice  are  endeavoring 
to  solve.  They  are  in  no  sense  redundant ;  we  have  not 
to  cudgel  our  brains  to  find  a  niche  or  an  occupation  for 
tJicm ;  they  are  fully  and  usefully  employed ;  they  dis- 


29G  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

charge  a  most  important  and  indispensable  function  in 
social  life;  tlioy  do  not  follow  an  obligatorily  independent, 
and  therefore  for  their  sex  an  unnatural,  career ;  on  the 
contrary,  they  are  attached  to  others,  and  are  connected 
with  other  existences  which  they  embellish,  facilitate, 
and  serve.  In  a  word,  they  fulfil  both  essentials  of  wo- 
man's being  ;  ilicy  are  siqyported  hy,  and  iliey  minister  to, 
men.  We  could  not  possibly  do  without  them.  Kature 
has  not  provided  one  too  many.  If  society  were  in  a 
perfectly  healthy  state,  we  should  no  doubt  have  to  man- 
age with  fewer  female  serv^ants  than  at  present ;  they 
would  earn  higher  wages ;  they  would  meet  with  more 
uniform  consideration  ;  and  they  would,  as  a  rule,  remain 
in  service  only  for  a  few  years,  and  not  for  life  :  but  they 
must  always  be  a  numerous  class,  and  scarcely  any  por- 
tion of  their  sex  is  more  useful  or  more  worthy. 

III.  We  have  now  to  treat  of  the  third  and  last  chief 
cause  of  the  abnormal  extent  of  female  celibacy  in  our 
country,  —  a  cause  respecting  which  speech  is  difficult, 
but  respecting  which  silence  would  be  undutiful  and 
cowardly.  We  will  be  plain,  because  we  wish  both  to  be 
brief  and  to  be  true.  So  many  ^^■omen  are  single  because 
so  many  men  are  profligate.  Probably,  among  all  the 
sources  of  the  social  anomaly  in  question,  this,  if  fully 
analyzed,  would  be  found  to  be  the  most  fertile,  and  to 
lie  the  deepest.  The  case  lies  in  a  nutshell.  Few  men 
—  incalculably  few  —  are  truly  celibate  by  nature  or  by 
choice.  There  are  few  who  would  not  purchase  love,  or 
the  indulgences  which  are  its  coarse  equivalents,  by  the 
surrender  or  the  curtailment  of  nearly  all  other  luxuries 
and  fancies,  if  they  could  obtain  them  on  no  cheaper  terms. 
In  a  word,  few  —  comparatively  very  few  —  would  not 
marry  as  soon  as  they  could  maintain  a  wife  in  anything 
like  decency  or  comfort,  if  only  through  marriage  they 
could  satisfy  their  cravings  and  gratify  their  passions.  If 
their  sole  choice  lay  between  entire  chastity, —  a  celi- 
bacy as  strict  and  absolute  as  that  of  women,  —  or  obedi- 
ence to  the  natural  dictates  of  the  senses  and  the  heart 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNDANT]         297 

in  the  only  legitimate  mode,  the-decision  of  nine  out  of  ten 
of  those  who  now  remain  bachelors  during  the  whole  or  a 
great  portion  of  their  lives  would,  there  can  be  no  doubt, 
be  in  favor  of  marriage.  If,  therefore,  every  man  among 
the  middle  and  higher  ranks  were  compelled  to  lead  a 
life  of  stainless  abstinence  till  h&  married,  and  unless  he 
married,  we  may  be  perfectly  sure  that  every  woman  in 
those  ranks  would  have  so  many  offers,  such  earnest  and 
such  rationally  eligible  ones,  that  no  one  would  remain 
single  except  those  to  whom  nature  dictated  celibacy  as 
a  vocation,  or  those  whose  cold  hearts,  independent  tem- 
pers, or  indulgent  selfishness  made  them  select  it  as  a 
preferable  and  more  luxurious  career.  Unhappily,  as 
matters  are  managed  now,  thousands  of  men  find  it  per- 
•fectly  feasible  to  combine  all  the  freedom,  luxury,  and 
self-indulgence  of  a  bachelor's  career  with  the  pleasures 
of  female  society  and  the  enjoyments  they  seek  for  there. 
As  long  as  this  is  so,  so  long,  we  fear,  a  vast  proportion 
of  the  best  women  in  the  educated  classes  —  women  es- 
pecially who  have  no  dowry  beyond  their  goodness  and 
their  beauty  —  will  be  doomed  to  remain  involuntarily 
single. 

How  this  sore  evil  is  to  be  remedied  we  cannot  under- 
take to  say.  But  what  we  have  already  said  in  an  earlier 
part  of  this  paper  will  suggest  one  or  two  palliatives  and 
partial  mitigations,  which,  together  and  in  time,  —  by  a 
cumulative  and  very  gradual  process,  —  may  approach  to 
something  like  a  cure.  When  female  emigration  has 
done  its  work,  and  drained  away  the  excess  and  the  spe- 
cial obviousness  of  the  redundance ;  when  women  have 
thus  become  far  fewer  in  proportion,  men  will  have  to 
bid  higher  for  the  possession  of  them,  and  will  find  it 
necessary  to  make  them  wives  instead  of  mistresses. 
Again  :  when  worthless  appearances,  and  weary  gayeties, 
and  joyless  luxuries,  shall  have  lost  something  of  their 
factitious  fascination  in  women's  eyes,  in  comparison 
with  more  solid  and  more  enduring  pleasures,  they  will 
be  content  with  smaller  worldly  means  in  the  men  who 
ask  their  hands,  and,  as  they  become  less  costly  articles 

13* 


298  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

of  furniture,  they  will  find  more  numerous  and  more 
eager  purchasers.  To  speak  broadly,  as  wives  become 
less  expensive  and  less  cxigcantcs,  more  men  will  learn  to 
prefer  them  to  mistresses.  Ladies  themselves  are  far 
from  guiltless  in  this  matter ;  and  though  this  truth  has 
been  somewhat  rudely  told  them  lately,  it  h  a  truth,  and 
it  is  one  tliey  would  do  well  to  lay  to  heart.  Society  — 
that  is,  the  society  of  great  cities  and  of  cultivated  life 
and  liigh  life  —  has  for  some  years  been  gi-owing  at  once 
more  expensive  and  less  remunerative,  more  diflicult 
and  more  dull ;  it  exacts  much  and  repays  little ;  its  at- 
tractions are  few,  while  its  trouble  and  its  gene  are  great. 
All  this  time,  while  the  mondc  has  been  deteriorating,  the 
dcmi-mo7icle  has  been  improving  ;  as  the  one  has  grown 
stupider  and  costlier,  the  other  has  grown  more  attractive, 
more  decorous,  and  more  easy.  The  ladies  (here  are  now 
often  as  clever  and  amusing,  usually  more  beautiful,  and 
not  unfrequently  (in  external  demeanor  at  least)  as  mod- 
est, as  their  rivals  in  more  recognized  society.  Want- 
ing the  one  essential  female  virtue,  they  often  seek  to 
atone  for  its  absence  by  accomplisliments  and  amiabili- 
ties which  irreproachable  respectability  does  not  invaria- 
bly display.  Tliese.  may  be  unpalatable  facts  :  it  is  sad 
that  things  should  be  so,  but  they  are  so.  Now,  as  long 
as  men  are  fond  of  female  society,  and  yet  hate  to  be 
bored,  and  shrink  from  profitless  exertion  and  fatiguing 
gene,  and  possess  only  a  moderate  competence,  and  above 
all  tilings  dread  pecuniary  embarrassment  or  ruin, —  so 
long  will  those  whose  principles  are  not  strict  and  whose 
moral  taste  is  not  fastidious  be  prone  to  seek  that  society 
where  they  can  have  it  on  the  easiest  and  cheapest  terms. 
And  the  only  way  in  which  virtuous  women  and  women 
of  tlie  world  can  meet  and  counteract  this  disposition  is 
the  very  opposite  to  that  they  have  seemed  inclined  to 
adopt  of  late.  They  must  imitate  that  rival  circle  in  its 
attractive  and  not  in  its  repellent  features,  —  in  its 
charms,  not  in  its  drawbacks  nor  its  blots  ;  in  its  ease 
and  simplicity,  not  in  its  boldness  or  its  license  of  look 
and  speech  ;  in  the  comparative  economy  of  style  which 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNDANT?         299 

covers  so  much  of  its  wastefulness,  and  in  the  cheerful- 
ness and  kindliness  of  demeanor  which  redeems  or  gilds 
so  many  of  its  sins. 

Single  life,  to  those  to  whom  it  comes  naturally,  is, 
like  all  natural  states,  a  happy  and  a  dignified  one.* 
Single  life,  to  those  on  whom  it  is  forced  by  individual 
errors  or  by  vicious  social  prejudices  or  arrangements,  is 
unnatural,  and  therefore  essentially  unsound,  unstable, 
and  the  source  of  immeasurable  wretchedness  and  mis- 
chief. Celibacy,  within  the  limits  which  Xature  has  ]5re- 
scribed,  and  through  her  statistical  interpreters  has 
clearly  proclaimed,  is  a  wholesome  and  not  unlovely  fea- 
ture in  the  aspect  of  society.  Celibacy,  when  it  tran- 
scends these  limits,  and  becomes  anything  but  exceptional, 
is  one  of  the  surest  and  most  menacing  symptoms  of 
something  gravely  and  radically  A\Tong.  Therefore  it  is 
tliat  all  those  efforts,  on  which  chivalric  or  compassionate 
benevolence  is  now  so  intent,  to  render  single  life  as  easy, 
as  attractive,  and  as  lucrative  to  women  as  imliapjDily 
other  influences  to  which  M'e  have  alluded  have  already 
made  it  to  men,  arc  efforts  in  a  icrong  direction,  — spon- 
taneous and  natural,  no  doubt,  to  the  tender  heart  of  hu- 
manity, which  always  seeks  first  to  relieve  sufiering,  and 
only  at  a  later  date  begins  to  think  of  curing  disorder,  — 
but  not  to  be  smiled  upon  or  aided  by  wise  prescribers 

*  We  are  so  anxions  to  preclude  misconception  of  our  views,  that,  at 
ths  I'iok  of  repetition,  we  may  say  again  distinctly  that,  where  female 
celibacy  is  either  necessary,  natural,  or  voluntary,  we  would  surround 
it  with  every  honor  and  with  every  comfort  and  adornment.  Maiden 
la  lies  are  in  hundreds  of  instances  hoth  more  useful  and  more  estimable 
and  less  selfish  than  the  wives  and  mothers  who  are  engrossed  in 
conjugal  and  maternal  interests.  In  thousands  of  instances  they  are, 
afkr  a  time,  more  happy.  In  our  day,  if  a  lady  is  possessed  of  a  very 
moderate  competence,  and  a  well-stored  and  well-regulated  mind,  she 
may  have  inlinitely  less  care  and  infinitely  more  enjoyment  than  if  she 
had  drawn  any  of  the  numerous  blanks  which  beset  the  lottery  of 
maiTia:;e.  Recent  disclosures  have  added  alarming  confirmation  to  this 
con-.-lubion,  and  are  producing  considerable  inlluence  on  the  feelings  of 
many  women.  All  that  we  wish  to  lay  down  is,  that  God  designed 
single  life  for  only  a  few  women,  and  that  where  he  did  not  design  it,  it 
is  a  mistake,  even  though  it  be  not  a  misery. 


300  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

for  the  maladies  of  states.  We  despise  the  shallow  igno- 
rance of  the  physician  avIio  administers  an  anodyne  to 
allay  pain  arising  from  local  inHanmiation  or  congestion, 
instead  of  resorting  to  the  depletive  measures  which  the 
cause  of  the  pain  unmistakably  demands.  But  \ve  have 
something  more  than  contempt  —  we  have  abhorrence 
and  disgust  —  for  the  menial  complaisance  of  the  (juack 
who  is  ever  ready  with  his  appetite  pills  and  his  emetics 
to  remedy  the  indigestion  of  yesterday,  and  to  render 
possible  the  gormandizing  of  to-day ;  or  who  tasks  his 
ingenuity  and  skill  to  save  his  dissolute  patients  from  the 
penal  and  corrective  consequences  which  nature  had  en- 
tailed on  their  excesses,  and  to  enable  them  to  continue 
those  excesses  with  immoral  and  mischievous  impunity. 
In  like  manner  our  philanthropy  —  that  of  many  of  us 
at  least  —  is  setting  out  on  the  wrong  tack.  To  endeavor 
to  make  women  independent  of  men  ;  to  multiply  and 
facilitate  their  employments  ;  to  enable  them  to  earn  a 
separate  and  sample  subsistence  by  competing  with  the 
hardier  sex  in  those  careers  and  occupations  hitherto  set 
apart  for  that  sex  alone ;  to  induct  them  generally  into 
avocations,  not  only  as  interesting  and  beneficent,  and 
therefore  appropriate,  but  specially  and  definitely  as  lu- 
crative ;  to  surround  single  life  for  them  with  so  smooth 
an  entrance,  and  such  a  pleasant,  ornamented,  comforta- 
ble path,  that  marriage  shall  almost  come  to  be  regarded, 
not  as  their  most  honora])le  function  and  especial  calling, 
but  merely  as  one  of  many  ways  open  to  them,  compet- 
ing on  equal  terms  with  other  ways  for  their  cold  and 
philosophic  choice :  —  this  would  appear  to  be  the  aim 
and  theory  of  many  female.reformers,  and  of  one  man  of 
real  pre-eminence,  —  wase  and  far-sighted  in  most  ques- 
tions, but  here  strangely  and  intrinsically  at  fault.  Few 
more  radical  or  more  fatal  errors,  we  are  satisfied,  phi- 
lanthropy has  ever  made,  though  her  course  everywhere 
lies  marked  and  strewn  with  wrecks,  and  failures,  and  as- 
tounding theories,  and  incredible  assumptions.  Till  the 
line  we  have  pointed  out  has  been  definitely  taken,  and 
the  remedies  we  have  enumerated  have  at  least  hcyun  to 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNDANT?         301 

be  systematically  and  energetically  applied,  and  the  evil 
we  have  analyzed  has  been  corrected  at  its  source,  and 
the  social  anomalies  and  distress  arising  therefrom  have 
thus  been  brought  within  manageable  compass,  all  such 
lenitives  as  are  sufjgested  will  prove  very  questionable, 
to  say  no  more.  Then,  however,  when  it  has  been  fully 
recognized  that  they  are  lenitives,  and  not  cures ;  that 
they  are  needed,  not  to  render  possible  the  continuance 
of  an  unhealthy  social  state,  but  to  clear  away  and  re- 
lieve the  miseries  which  that  state  —  now  sentenced  and 
discarded  —  has  left  behind  it;  wlien  it  is  seen  and  ad- 
mitted that  what  we  have  to  do  is  to  provide  occupations, 
remunerative  to  themselves  and  to  the  society  for  which 
they  live,  not  for  a  permanent  and  incurable  excess  of  sin- 
gle women,  but  only  for  those  whom  our  past  errors  have 
made  single,  and  for  those  who  are  single  either  for  a  time 
only,  or  from  exceptional  disaster,  or  from  nature  and  voca- 
tion, — our  course  w411  become  very  clear,  and  our  work  com- 
paratively very  simple.  On  the  details  of  this  matter  we 
have  but  a  few  remarks  to  make.  More  experience'd  and 
more  practical  heads  and  hands  than  ours  are  busy  at  the 
task  ;  our  only  desire  has  been  to  see  that  the  time  inspiring 
and  directing  conception  should  be  discerned  and  grasped. 
1.  And,  firstly,  those  wild  schemers  —  principally  to 
be  found  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  where  a  young 
community  revels  in  every  species  of  extravagant  fanta- 
sies —  who  would  throw  open  the  professions  to  w^omen, 
and  teach  them  to  become  lawyers  and  physicians  and 
professors,  know  little  of  life,  and  less  of  physiology. 
The  brain  and  the  frame  of  woman  are  formed  with  ad- 
mirable suitability  to  their  appropriate  work,  for  which 
subtlety  and  sensitiveness,  not  strength  and  tenacity  of 
fibre,  are  required.  The  cerebral  organization  of  the  fe- 
male is  far  more  delicate  than  that  of  man  ;  the  continu- 
ity and  severity  of  application  needed  to  acquire  real 
mastery  in  any  profession,  or  over  any  science,  are  denied 
to  w^omen,  and  can  never  with  impunity  be  attempted  by 
them ;  mind  and  health  would  almost  invariably  lireak 
down  under  the  task.      And  wherever  any  exceptional 


302  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  .lUDGMEXTS. 

M^omen  are  to  be  found  who  seem  to  be  abnormally  en- 
dowed in  this  respect,  and  whose  power  and  mental 
muscle  are  almost  masculine,  it  may  almost  invariably, 
and  we  l)elicve  Ijy  a  law  of  physiolooical  necessity,  be 
observed  that  they  have  purchased  this  questionable  pre- 
eminence by  a  forfeiture  of  some  of  the  distinctive  and 
most  invaluable  charms  and  capaljilities  of  their  sex. 

2.  We  are  not  at  all  disposed  to  echo  the  cry  of  those 
who  object  to  women  and  girls  engaging  in  this  or  that 
industrial  career,  on  the  ground  that  tliey  thus  reduce 
the  wages  and  usurp  the  employment  of  the  other  sex. 
Against  female  compositors,  tailors,  telegraph-workers, 
and  factory-hands  this  objection  has  lieen  especially 
urged.  We  apprehend  that  it  is  founded  on  an  obvious 
economical  misconception.  .  It  is  an  objection  to  the 
principle  of  comj)etition  in  the  abstract.  It  is  a  bequest 
from  the  days  —  now  happily  passing  away  —  of  sur])lus 
population,  inadequate  emplo3^ment,  and  JNIaltliusian  ter- 
rors. It  is  clearly  a  waste  of  strength,  a  supeifinous  ex- 
travagance, an  economic  blunder,  to  employ  a  powerful 
and  costly  machine  to  do  A\'ork  which  can  be  as  well- 
done  by  a  feebler  and  a  cheaper  one.  Women  and  girls 
are  less  costly  operatives  than  men :  what  they  can  do 
with  equal  efficiency,  it  is  tlierefore  wasteful  and  Ibolish 
{economically  co7isiderccl)  to  set  a  man  to  do.  By  employ- 
ing the  cheaper  labor,  the  article  is  supjdied  to  the  pub- 
lic at  a  smaller  cost,  and  therefore  the  demand  for  the 
article  is  increased.  If,  indeed,  there  were  only  a  certain 
fixed  and  unaugmentable  quantity  of  work  to  be  done, 
and  too  many  hands  to  do  it,  —  so  that  some  mu.st  un- 
avoidably be  idle,  —  then  it  vtight  be  wise  to  employ 
men  to  do  it,  and  let  the  women,  rather  than  the  men, 
sit  with  their  hands  before  them.  But  it  could  be  wise 
only  in  a  moral,  not  in  an  economical,  view  of  the  sub- 
ject. Such  a  state  of  things,  however,  can  never  obtain 
in  a  healthy  community,  and  rarely  (if  ever)  in  reality  in 
any  community  at  all.  Certainly  it  is  not  the  case  with 
us.  If  women  are  employed  as  tailors  or  as  printers, 
men  are  thereby  set  free  for  harder  and  more  productive 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNDANT?         303 

labor,  which  they  can  do,  and  which  women  cannot.  If 
women  are  selected  to  manage  electric  telegraphs,  not 
only  are  men  not  wasted  over  that  work  (wherein  half 
their  strength  and  capacity  would  be  unused  and  in  con- 
sequence unprofitable),  but  telegrams  become  cheaper, 
and  more  telegrams  are  sent,  and  the  puljlic  is  better 
served.  The  employment  of  women  and  children  in  fac- 
tories, at  labor  which  they  can  do  not  only  as  well,  but 
actually  better  than  grown  men  (since  it  requires  watch- 
fulness and  nicety  of  touch  rather  than  strength  or  skill), 
enabled  our  nmnufacturing  industry  to  attain  a  develop- 
ment to  which  half  the  wealth  and  progress  of  the  nation 
may  be  traced.  If  only  men  had  been  employed  in  cot- 
ton-mills, calicoes  would  have  cost  three  times  as  much 
per  yard  as  at  present ;  the  population  of  England  would 
have  been  smaller  by  some  millions  ;  our  ships  and  com- 
merce would  have  been  proportionally  restricted ;  and 
distant  countries  would  have  been  far  more  inadequately 
clotiied  than  they  actually  are.  If  there  be  any  olyection 
to  the  employment  of  women  and  children  in  manufac- 
turing or  other  analogous  sorts  of  labor,  it  must  be  based 
exclusively  upon  social  or  moral  considerations ;  and 
even  then  it  will  be  found  to  be  enormously  over-esti- 
mated, to  arise  ironi  a  curable  abuse  or  excess,  and  to  be 
a  separable  accident,  and  not  a  mischief  essential  to  the 
system.  The  employment  of  married  women,  in  factory 
labor  is  undoubtedly  an  evil ;  but  it  is  so  because  the}'' 
continue  it  after  they  are  mothers,  when  it  does  not  pay, 
and  because  it  disables  them  from  making  their  hus- 
bands' homes  comfortable,  and  from  laying  out  their 
earnings  with  economy  and  skill.  The  employment  of 
young  girls  in  factory  labor,  too,  is  attended  with  the 
serious  drawback,  that  it  usually  leaves  them  utterly  ig- 
norant and  inexperienced  in  household  management ;  but 
this  is  because  they  continue  it  too  long,  and  give  them- 
selves to  it  so  exclusively.     Abusus  non  tollit  usum. 

3.  The  condition  of  that  section  of  unmarried  women 
who  earn,  or  attempt  to  earn,  their  bread  as  governesses 
has  attracted,  and  assuredly  deserves  to  attract,  an  un- 


304  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

usual  amount  of  public  attention.  Few  conditions  in 
our  stage  of  civilization  want  amending  and  rectifying 
more.  But  here,  as  in  so  many  otlier  of  our  benevolent 
efibrts,  we  have  been  sailing  on  the  wrong  tack.  Wliy 
has  the  function  of  a  female  educator,  of  a  woman 
whose  task  it  is,  in  the  privacy  and  confidence  of  the 
domestic  circle,  not  merely  to  instruct,  Init  often  actually 
to  form,  the  mind  and  the  character  of  our  girls,  and  up 
to  a  certain  age  of  our  boys  too,  —  wliy  has  the  position 
of  those  called  to  exercise  this  most  responsible  and  mo- 
mentous of  all  functions  been  so  little  honored  and  so 
ill  remunerated  ?  Mainly,  we  say  it  distinctly  (where  it 
has  been  little  honored  and  ill  remunerated),  because  it 
deserved  no  better ;  because  such  numl)ers  of  those  who 
undertook  it  were  wretchedly  qualified  to  discliarge  it 
conscientiously  or  efficiently.  It  was  ill  paid  and  ill  es- 
teemed, because  it  was  ill  clone.  Governesses  were  a  de- 
pressed and  despised  class  —  where  they-  were  so  —  for 
the  same  reason  that  needlewomen  were  a  distressed 
class ;  because  as  every  woman  could  read  and  ^^'rite  and 
use  a  needle,  as  every  woman  could  teach  a  little  and 
sew  a  little,  every  uneducated  woman  who  was  destitute 
became  a  sempstress,  and  every  educated  (or  half-educat- 
ed) woman  became  a  governess.  If  none  but  the  really 
competent  had  undertaken  the  profession,  the  profession 
would  have  been  highly  valued  and  highly  rewarded. 
If  there  had  been  any  recognized  and  reliable  test  by 
M'hich  the  competent  could  be  distinguished  from  the 
incompetent,  the  former  would  have  been  honored  and 
engaged,  anjd  the  latter  would  have  been  neglected  and 
starved  out.  But  as  the  majority  were  utterly  unfit  for 
their  task  (whatever  their  excellent  morals  and  inten- 
tions), and  as  there  was  no  means  of  distinguishing  the 
minority  from  the  mass,  all  were  discredited  alike,  and  the 
average  rate  of  reward  fell  to  the  a^'erage  rate  of  merit,  — 
perhaps  even  below  it.  The  remedy  seems  to  us  clear. 
Let  there  be  some  institution  authorized  to  examine 
ladies  who  desire  to  become  teachers  (if  not  also  to 
prepare  them  for  the  work),  and  to  confer  upon  them 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNDANT  1         305 

diplomas  or  certificates  of  qualification,  as  is  the  case  in 
Germany,  and  we  believe  in  other  continental  countries.* 
No  one  is  allowed  to  practise  medicine  or  surgery  with- 
out proof  of  competence  :  why  should  any  one  be  allowed 
to  practise  education  ?  No  one  unqualified  may  under- 
take the  management  of  the  body  :  why  should  the  mind 
be  left  more  recklessly  unprotected?  Surely  as  much 
mischief  may  be  done  by  an  incapable  practitioner  in 
the  one  case  as  in  the  other.  But  there  would  be  no 
need  to  go  as  far  as  this.  If  all  women  who  wished  to 
become  governesses  could  find  a  college  in  which  to 
qualify  themselves  for  the  noble  office  ;  and  if  all  who 
were  thus  qualified  could  provide  themselves  with  a  cer- 
tificate of  qualification,  —  the  unprovided  and  incompe- 
tent would  be  unable  to  find  employment,  and  would 
cease  to  lower  the  character  and  drag  down  the  remuner- 
ation of  the  entire  class  into  which  they  now  intrude 
themselves  unwarrantably.  You  would,  at  first,  liave 
fewer  following  that  calling ;  but  those  who  did  follow  it 
would  hold  their  right  position,  and  their  numbers  would 
be  recruited  as  the  need  for  them  was  felt. 

4.  There  will  still  remain  a  large  numlDer  of  single 
women  unprovided  for,  of  such  a  class  in  life  tliat  they 
cannot  sink  to  be  servants,  of  such  a  character  and  capa- 
city that  they  cannot  rise  to  be  governesses,  who  are  yet 
under  the  necessity  of  finding  some  means  of  supporting 
themselves.  They  are  very  numerous  now :  they  will 
probably  always  exist  in  moderate  numbers,  even  when 
all  the  natural  and  healthy  influences  we  have  pointed 
out  shall  have  wrought  their  remedial  results.  Some  of 
these  will  be  provided  for  by  such  occupations  as  those 
which  Miss  Maria  Eye,  Miss  Emily  Faith  full  at  the  "  Vic- 
toria Press,"  and  other  judicious  friends  of  the  sex  have 
endeavored  to  open  to  them.  But  as  redundant  single 
women  are  removed  by  emigration  and  by  marriage,  the 
population  out  of  which  the  class  of  superior  female  ser- 
vants are  recruited  will  be  so  much  reduced,  that  that 
class  will  rise  in  value,  in  estimation,  and  in  reward ;  so 

•    *  Decided  steps  have  of  late  begviu  to  be  taken  in  this  direction. 

T 


306  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS.  • 

that  the  position  will  be  sought  by  and  eligible  for  many 
to  whom  it  would  now  seem  a  decided  derogation  to 
enter  it. 

5.  Lastly,  there  are  occupations  for  which  single 
women  are  and  always  will  be  wanted,  —  occupations 
which  none  other  can  discharge  as  well,  or  can  discharge 
at  all.  There  are  the  thousand  ramilications  of  charity, 
—  nurses,  matrons,  sceurs  dc  charite,  "  missing  links  "  ;  — 
functions  of  inestimable  importance  and  of  absolute  neces- 
sity, -^  functions  which  if  ill  performed  or  unperformed, 
society  would  languish  or  fall  into  disorder.  In  a  healthy 
state  of  civilization  these  tasks  would  absorb  only  a  mod- 
erate number  of  women,  perhaps  not  more  than  the  four 
or  five  per  cent  whom  Nature  has  provided  ad  hoc.  In 
our  disarranged  and  morbid  state,  the  demand  for  their 
services  is  enormously  enhanced,  —  enhanced,  possibly, 
almost  as  much  as  the  supply.  Tlien  there  is  a  large  and 
increasing  call  for  a  supjdy  of  literary  food,  such  as  many 
well-educated  women  find  themselves  fully  able  to  fur- 
nish ;  and  if  only  those  who  are  really  competent  to  this 
work  were  to  undertake  it,  it  would  keep  them  in  ample 
independence.  Novels  are  now  almost  as  indispensable  a 
portion  of  the  food  of  English  life  as  beef  or  beer ;  and 
no  producers  are  superior  to  \vomen  in  this  line  either 
as  to  delicate  handling  or  abundant  fertility. 

To  sum  np  the  whole  matter.  Nature  makes  no  mis- 
takes and  creates  no  redundancies.  Nature,  honestly  and 
courageously  interrogated,  gives'no  erroneous  or  ambigu- 
ous replies.  In  the  case  before  us.  Nature  cries  out 
against  the  malady,  and  plainly  indicates  the  remedy. 
The  first  point  to  fix  firmly  in  our  minds  is,  that  in  the 
excess  of  single  women  in  Great  Britain  we  have  a  cura- 
ble evil  to  be  mended,  not  an  irreparable  evil  to  be  borne. 
The  mischief  is  to  be  eradicated,  not  to  be  counterbal- 
anced, mitigated,  or  accepted,  v  To  speak  in  round  num- 
bers, we  have  one  million  and  a  half  adult  unmarried 
M'omen  in  Great  l^ritain.  Of  these  half  a  million  are 
wanted  in  the  colonies ;  half  a  million  more  are  usefully, 


WHY  ARE  WOMEN  REDUNDANT?        307 

happily,  and  indispensably  occupied  in  domestic  service : 
the  evil,  thus  viewed,  assumes  manageable  dimensions, 
and  only  a  residual  half-million  remain  to  be  practically 
dealt  with.  As  an  immediate  result  of  the  removal  of 
five  hundred  thousand  women  from  th^  mother  country, 
where  they  are  redundant,  to  the  colonies,  where  tliey 
are  sorely  needed,  all  who  remain  at  home  will  rise  in 
value,  will  be  more  sought,  will  be  better  rewarded.  The 
number  who  compete  for  the  few  functions  and  the  limited 
work  at  the  disposal  of  women  being  so  much  reduced, 
the  competition  will  be  less  cruelly  severe,  and  the  pay 
less  ruinously  beaten  down.  As  the  redundancy  at  home 
diminishes,  and  the  value  is  thereby  increased,  men  will 
not  be  able  to  obtain  women's  companionship  and  women's 
care  so  cheaply  on  illicit  terms.  As  soon  as  the  ideas  of 
both  sexes  in  the  middle  and  upper  ranks,  on  the  ques- 
tion of  the  income  and  the  articles  which  refinement  and 
elegance  require,  are  rectified,  —  as  soon,  that  is,  as  these 
exigencies  are  reduced  from  what  is  purely  factitious  to 
what  is  indisputably  real,  —  thousands  who  now  condemn 
themselves  and  those  they  love  to  single  life  will  find 
that  they  can  marry  without  foregoing  any  luxury  or 
comfort  which  is  essential  to  ladylike  and  cultivated  and 
enjoyable  existence.  Finally,  as  soon  as,  owing  to  stricter 
principles,  purer  tastes,  or  improved  social  condition,  — 
or  such  combination  of  all  these  as  the  previous  move- 
ments spoken  of  must  gradually  tend  to  produce,  —  the 
vast  majority  of  men  find  themselves  compelled  either  to 
live  without  all  that  woman  can  bestow,  or  to  purchase 
it  in  the  recognized  mode,  —  as  soon,  to  speak  plainly, 
as  their  sole  choice  lies  between  marriage  and  a  life  of 
real  and  not  nominal  celibacy,  the  apparent  redundance 
of  women  complained  of  now  will  vanisli  as  by  magic,  if, 
indeed,  it  be  not  replaced  by  a  deficiency.  We  are  satis- 
fied that  IF  the  gulf  could  be  practically  bridged  over,  so 
that  women  went  where  they  are  clamored  for ;  and  if 
we  were  contented  with  the  actualities  instead  of  the 
empty  and  unreal  and  unrewarding  shadows  of  luxury 
and  refinement ;  and  if  men  were  necessitated  either  to 


308  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

marry  or  be  chaste,  —  all  of  which  things  it  is  a  discredit- 
able incapacity  in  us  not  to  he  able  to  accomplish,  —  so  far 
from  there  being  too  many  women  for  the  work  that 
must  be  done,  and  that  only  women  can  do  well,  there 
would  be'  too  few.  The  work  would  be  seeking  for  the 
women,  instead  of,  as  now,  the  women  seeking  for  the 
work.  We  are  disordered,  we  are  suffering,  we  are  astray, 
because  we  have  gone  wrong ;  and  our  philanthropists  are 
laboring,  not  to  make  us  go  backward  and  go  right,  but 
to  make  it  easier  and  smoother  to  persist  in  wrong. 


TEUTH  VERSUS  EDIFICATIOK 

COX\^OCATIOX  has  recently*  come  to  a  decision  of 
some  importance,  as  far  as  importance  can  be  said 
to  attach  to  any  decision  of  that  anomalous  and  self-sur- 
viving body.  The  Lower  House  suggested  and  strongly 
urged  the  appointment  of  a  committee  "to  report  on" 
Dr.  Colenso's  book ;  and  the  Upper  House,  in  a  crowded 
assembly  of  five  members  presided  over  by  the  Primate,  in 
an  evil  hour,  conceded  the  request.  Three  circumstances, 
however,  gave  a  peculiar  significance  to  this  resolution. 
The  Bishop  of  Oxford  was  opportunely  absent,  being  op- 
portunely ill.  The  resolution  was  adopted  by  a  majority 
of  one,  —  three  Bishops  voting  in  its  favor,  and  two 
against  it.  And  the  three  "  ayes  "  were  the  Bishops  of 
Lincoln,  St.  Asaph,  and  Llandaff,  while  the  two  "  noes  " 
were  the  Bishops  of  London  and  St.  David's.  These  two 
eminent  dissentients  pointed  out  certain  objections  to  the 
course  proposed,  and  certain  difficulties  in  which  its 
adoption  might  involve  them.  They  intimated  that 
good  seldom  arose  out  of  authoritative  condemnations  of 
argumentative  works  ;  that  such  condemnations  and  prose- 
cutions were  generally  urged  by  inconsiderate  and  un- 
knowing juniors,  or  by  gray-headed  men  as  inconsiderate 
and  unknowing  as  the  young ;  and  that  to  denounce  a 
book  which  they  did  not  propose  to  answer,  and  a  man 
whom  they  might  officially  be  called  upon  to  judge,  was 
scarcely  wise,  and  certainly  not  decorous. 

This  ground,  indeed,  had  been  boldly  and  plainly  taken 
by  a  member  of  the  Lower  House  on  a  ])revious  day.  He 
pointed  out  the  very  obvious  consideration  that  the  only 

*  1863. 


310  LITERARY»AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

effectual  means  of  counteractinfr  the  miscliief  said  to  he 
■wrought  or  menaced  by  the  book  whose  puljlication  they 
all  deplored,  was  to  reply  to  it;  to  show  where  it  was 
wrong,  and  to  ])rove  that  it  was  wrong.  And  it  is  the 
more  clear  that  tliis  course  is  obligatory  upon  some  one, 
because  while  it  may  he  assumed,  and  is  confidently  be- 
lieved by  tliose  who  have  been  most  startled  and  shocked, 
that  many  of  the  jjropositions  in  the  inculpated  volume 
are  untenable  and  niay  easily  be  refuted,  it  is  equally 
certain  that  some  of  them  are  true  and  cannot  be  gain- 
said ;  and  the  religious  world  are  anxiously  desirous  to 
be  told  by  some  competent  and  accredited  instructor 
which  of  the  Bishop  of  Natal's  statements  are  correct, 
and  which  are  erroneous.  It  is  obvious  that  a  co7idcmna- 
tion  of  the  book,  however  severe,  however  unanimous, 
however  high  the  authority  from  which  it  may  proceed, 
will  afford  no  satisfaction  on  this —  the  essential  —  point 
to  sincere  and  pious  inquirers. 

We  fully  understand  the  reluctance  of  those  prudent 
and  learned  members  of  the  Episcopate  wlio  voted  against 
the  appointment  of  the  committee  in  question,  to  under- 
take, or  to  allow  any  of  their  authorized  brethren  to 
undertake,  the  task  of  dealing  with  Dr.  Colenso's  work. 
They  know  well  —  though  the  great  body  of  the  clergy 
who  constitute  the  Lower  House  may  probably  be  igno- 
rant— that  any  honest,  effectual,  and  competent  reply 
must  commence  by  concessions  which  would  startle  the 
generality  of  English  churches  almost  as  much  as  the 
obnoxious  book  itself,  and  might  unsettle  their  faith  far 
more ;  because,  though  they  would  be  less  extensive,  and 
would  refer  to  points  less  vital,  they  would  be  as  new  to 
the  masses,  would  come  from  a  higher  authority,  and,  once 
made,  could  not  be  recalled.  This  is  the  real  difficulty 
that  stands  in  the  way  of  any  attempt  to  meet  Dr. 
Colenso's  biblical  criticism  on  the  part  of  our  ecclesiastical 
dignitaries  and  "  accredited  teachers."  It  may  well  be 
that  all  that  is  truly  noxious  and  dangerous  in  the  Bishop's 
book  could  be  satisfactorily  and  conclusively  refuted  by 
an  unfettered  layman  whom  piety  and  learning  should 


TRUTH    VERSUS  EDIFICATION.  311 

combine  to  qualify  ;  but  the  very  position  in  which  he 
would  place  his  battery  would  raise  suspicions  and  accu- 
sations of  treachery  from  the  churches  whose  battle  he 
was  going  to  fight,  and  the  first  shot  he  fired  would  strike 
even  greater  dismay  into  the  hearts  of  his  own  camp  than 
into  the  ranks  of  the  enemy. 

We  can  understand  also  the  disinclination  of  fair  and 
qualified  divines,  like  Dr.  Tait  and  Dr.  Thirl  wall,  to  anath- 
ematize a  work  which,  mischievous  and  erroneous  as 
they  might  deem  it  as  a  whole,  yet  contains  some  correc- 
tions of  old  errors  and  misconceptions  such  as  they  would 
themselves  be  glad  to  see  generally  accepted,  and  some 
wholesome  views,  usually  denied  or  neglected,  which  they 
themselves  have  long  entertained.  AVe  approve,  there- 
fore, both  their  prudence  and  their  loyalty ;  and  we  regret 
that  it  should  have  been  reserved  for  a  layman,  who  has 
drunk  too  deep  at  the  fountains  of  all  literature  and  of 
some  sciences  not  to  know  where  truth  lies,  so  to  imitate 
one  of  the  most  ordinary  and  most  indefensible  proceed- 
ings of  the  ecclesiastical  mind,  as  to  denounce  a  book 
wdiich  he  not  only  does  not  attempt  to  refute,  but  which 
he  does  not  even  profess  to  believe  is,  in  its  main  prop- 
ositions and  substantial  essence,  capable  of  refutation. 

A  recent  number  of  Macmillans  Magazine  contains  an 
article  *  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Arnold,  strongly  condemn- 
ing, not  the  conclusions  of  Bishop  Colenso's  book,  but  the 
publication  of  that  book.  The  article  in  question,  like 
everything  that  proceeds  from  the  same  source,  is  emi- 
nently characteristic,  able,  polished,  and  interesting ;  but 
it  maintains  a  thesis  so  questionable,  and  is  based  upon 
fallacies  so  transparent  and  assumptions  so  inaccurate, 
that  we  are  filled  with  surprise  at  so  practised  a  disputant 
venturing  to  take  up  a  position  so  unsafe. 

The  opinion  of  Mr.  Arnold  —  which  lie  appears  to  hold 
as  firmly  as  any  Catholic  divine,  and  which  he  certainly 
l)roaches  as  nakedly  as  any  Pagan  philosopher — is,  that  the 
distinction  between  esotei'ic  and  exoteric  views  and  knowl- 
edge is  as  obligatory  as  that  between  the  divine  and  the 

*  Tlw  Bishop  and  the  Pldlosopher.     By  Matthew  Arxold. 


312  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

human,  the  sacred  and  the  profane,  and  cannot  be  disre- 
garded or  broken  down  without  mischief  or  without  guilt ; 
that  truth  is  the  privilege  of  the  few,  and  edification  the 
only  claim  and  right  of  the  many  ;  that,  in  a  word,  sound 
doctrine  is  for  the  clergy,  and  safe  doctrine  for  the 
laity.  "We  are  naturally  a  little  startled  at  the  naive 
courage  with  which  this  very  academic  notion  of  the  Ox- 
ford professor  is  propounded  by  one  of  her  Majest}''s  in- 
spectors of  schools  assisted  and  superintended  by  the 
state ;  but  as  we  are  desirous  to  avoid  all  abstract  or  dis- 
putable questions,  and  as  there  is  a  sense  in  which,  and  a 
limit  up  to  which,  the  thesis  m  question  does  admit  of 
justification,  we  shall  not  join  issue  with  Mr.  Arnold  upon 
this  ground.  We  may  at  once  concede,  as  a  general 
principle,  that  in  all  cases,  mental  as  well  as  material,  the 
soil  must  be  prepared  before  the  seed  is  sown,  if  we  wish 
to  reap  a  satisfactory  and  wholesome  harvest ;  that  "strong 
meat  is  not  lor  babes  "  ;  and  that  the  young,  the  ignorant, 
and  the  uncultured  masses,  who  seek  only  moral  guidance 
and  spiritual  consolation  and  support,  should  be  fed  with 
what  St.  Peter  terms  "  the  sincere  milk  of  the  "Word," 
rather  than  with  "  doubtful  disputations."  But  when  Mr. 
Arnold  proceeds  to  apply  his  esoteric  philosophy  to  the 
case  before  us,*  and  to  deduce  special  rules  from  his 
general  theory,  he  comes  upon  propositions  which  are 
not  only  utterl}^  inadmissible  as  practical  directions,  but 
quite  incorrect  as  serious  statements. 

No  book  (on  such  a  subject  as  biblical  criticism  or 
theology)  ought  to  be  Avritten,  says  Mr.  Arnold,  unless  it 
is  calculated  either  "  to  inform  the  instructed,  or  to  edify 
the  uninstructed  " ;  uidess  it  aims  either  to  elevate  the 
moral  condition  of  the  masses,  or  to  add  to,  and  carry 
forward  to  a  higher  point  than  it  has  yet  reached,  our 
knowledge  of  theological  science.  Bishop  Colenso's  book 
does  neither.  It  has  therefore  no  raison  cVeirc,  and  its 
publication  is  a  culpable  indiscretion.  "  We  knew  all 
this  before,"  says,  in  efi'ect,  the  Oxford  Professor :  "  it  is  no 
news-  to  us  that  mucli  of  the  Pentateuch  is  unhistorical, 
its  figures  usually  untrustworthy,  and  its  facts  often  ques- 


TRUTH    VERSUS  EDIFICATION.  313 

tionable,  and  sometimes  obviously  incorrect :  you  have 
told  us  nothing  fresh,  and  even  the  old  matter  you  liave 
not  told  us  particularly  well ;  and,  more  than  this,  you 
had  no  business  to  tell  it  to  the  multitude  at  all.  If  you 
must  write  such  a  book,  you  ought  to  have  written  it  in 
Latin ;  in  which  case  it  could  have  been  read  by  few 
of  thQ  working  clergy,  and  by  scarcely  any  of  the  busy 
laity." 

Now,  if  Mr.  Arnold  is  contertt  to  use  the  terms  of  his 
general  proposition  in  a  sti^ict  sense,  we  should  not  be  in- 
clined to  dispute  it.  Ev^ery  religious  work  —  indeed, 
every  serious  work  —  ought  to  be  able  to  plead  as  the 
justification,  botli  for  its  existence  and  its  character,  that 
it  seeks  either  the  enlightenment  of  the  instructed  few  or 
the  edification  of  the  ignorant  many.  But  he  does  not 
use  his  terms,  or  at  least  he  does  not  apply  them,  strictly ; 
and  therefore  we  demur  to  the  doctrine,  and  we  hold  his 
application  of  it  to  be  slippery  and  unfair.  "We  affirm 
that  Bishop  Ccjlenso's  book  is  calculated  both  to  inform 
those  whom  Mr.  Arnold,  Ave  presume,  would  in  courtesy 
consider  as  the  instructed,  and  to  edify  those  whom  he 
would  include  among  the  uninstructed  ;  and  we  are  satis- 
fied that  the  Professor,  as  soon  as  he  looks  at  our  asser- 
tion closely  and  in  the  concrete,  will  be  the  first  to  agree 
with  us.  We  should  think  very  ill  of  our  argument  if 
we  could  not  carry  with  us  in  every  step  of  it  a  mind  so 
lucid,  so  straightforward,  and  so  sincerely  liberal  as  Mr, 
Arnold's. 

There  are  not  less  than  fifteen  thousand  clergymen  of  the 
Church  of  England,  and  about  as  many  more  divines,  or 
ministers,  of  other  sects,  —  Baptists,  Presbyterians,  Wes- 
leyans,  Pomanists,  Unitarians,  etc.,  —  who  are  every  Sun- 
day employed  in  expounding  the  Scriptures  and  preaching 
Christianity  to  various  congregations  in  Great  Britain. 
There  are,  that  is,  thirty  thousand  accredited  theological 
teachers,  whose  business  it  is  to  "  edily  the  ignorant 
masses,"  and  who  labor  diligently  and  honestly  in  their 
vocation.  Now,  we  simply  ask,  do  these  preachers,  as  a 
rule,  belong  to  ]\Ir.  Arnold's  class  of  "  instructed,"  or  to  his 
u 


314  LITERARY   AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

other  class  of  the  "  uninstriicted  "  ?  If  to  the  instructed, 
then  it  is  manifest  tliat  the  Bishop's  book  is  eminently 
calculated  to  "  inform  them,"  and  to  carry'  forward  their 
knowledge  of  biblical  criticism  and  theological  science. 
!Mr.  Arnold  knows,  far  Ijetter  than  we  can  tell  him,  how 
deplorably  slight  is  the  j^'^'^l/cssional  education  of  the 
Church  clergy  ;  and  ho\v  still  more  superficial  is  that  of 
the  great  majority  of  dissenting  ministers.  It  is  certainly 
not  too  much  to  say  that  out  of  the  above-named  thirty 
thousand  religious  teachers,  whom  by  courtesy  we  must 
rank  among  the  "  instructed,"  there  are  not  above  five  thou- 
sand to  whom  the  Bishop's  facts  and  arguments  will  not 
be  almost  or  altogether  new.  The  remaining  twenty-five 
thousand,  if  they  do  not  now  learn  for  the  first  time  that 
tlie  doctrine  of  the  Plenary  Inspiration  has  been  im- 
])ugned,  have  no  idea  that  it  has  long  since  been  aban- 
doned by  all  the  thoughtful  and  really  learned  even 
among  orthodox  and  earnest  Christians  ;  that  no  one, 
however  pious,  who  has  studied  theology  as  a  science,  or 
is  at  all  acquainted  with  the  result  of  tlie  investigations 
of  the  ablest  divines,  now  believes  that  the  Pentateuch, 
as  we  have  it,  was  written  by  Moses,  or  doubts  that 
its  narratives  are  often  legendary,  and  its  numbers  almost 
invariably  mythical.  To  all  these  men  the  facts  and 
reasonings  of  the  Bisliop  will  come  like  a  fiash  of  daz- 
zling and  bewildering  lightning.  It  will  not  only  "  carry 
forward  their  knowledge  of  biblical  criticism,"  it  will 
be  nearly  their  first  introduction  to  that  new  department 
in  their  own  field  of  thought.  It  will  not  only  "  inform 
them  further"  on  topics  which  ought  to  have  been  famil- 
iar to  them  from  their  ordination,  it  will  be  literally  the 
alpliabet  of  that  information  to  most  of  them.  These 
things,  which  are  old  and  almost  trite  verities  to  "  us," 
are  to  them  the  most  astounding  and  disturbing  novelties. 
Dr.  Colenso's  book  to  all  these  men  will  be  what  Lessing 
and  Eichhorn,  and  De  Wette  and  Ewald,  and  Strauss  were 
successively  to  the  theological  world  of  Europe.  It  does 
not,  indeed,  greatly  carry  forward  the  science  of  biblical 
criticism,  but  it  brings  that  science  for  the  first  time 


TRUTH    V£ESUS  EDIFICATION.  315 

home  to  the  vast  majority  of   British  ministers  of  the 
Gospel. 

If,  then,  the  mass  of  English  clergymen,  orthodox  and 
schismatic,  be  included  by  Mr.  Arnold  in  his  category  of 
the  instructed  few,  then  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the 
Bishop's  book  will  "  inform  and  enlighten  "  them,  and  has 
therefore  made  good  its  title  to  existence.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  Mr.  Arnold,  from  the  height  of  his  academic 
culture,  and  looking  to  indisputable  facts,  should  relegate 
them  in  his  calm  and  dignilied  serenity  to  the  crowded 
ranks  of  those  uninstructed  many,  for  Mdiom  "  edification  " 
is  all  that  is  necessar}^  and  all  that  is  accessible,  —  then 
in  reference  to  that  proposition  also  we  have  a  word  or 
two  to  say.  But  the  argument  we  are  criticizing  was  ob- 
viously based  upon  the  first  and  more  polite  division  ; 
and  on  that  supposition  only  could  it  have  any  validity 
whatever.  If,  indeed,  as  J\Ir.  Arnold  appears  tacitly  to 
have  assumed  or  intended  to  imply,  the  theological  teach- 
ers of  the  nation  —  all  "  instructed  "  men  —  knew  per- 
fectly well,  and  had  long  known,  that  nmch  of  the  Pen- 
tateuch was  unhistqrical,  that  none  of  it  was  verljally 
and  textually  inspired,  that  it  contained  many  narratives 
which  were  legendary,  and  some  legends  that  were  of  a 
very  doubtful  moral  tendency,  —  that  amid  splendid 
truths  and  sublime  revelations,  and  pure  and  noble  pre- 
cepts, and  marvellous  insight  into  God's  character  and 
dealings,  it  mingled  much  of  a  \'ery  different  if  not  op- 
posing nature  ;  —  and  if,  knowing  all  this,  they  carefully 
winnowed  the  wheat  from  the  chaff,  and — without  dis- 
turbing the  minds  of  their  uncritical  and  undoubting 
hearers  by  hints  of  sceptical  theology  —  taught  them 
only  what  was  edifying,  made  them  believe  only  what 
was  credible,  insisted  only  on  worthy  and  elevated  views 
of  God,  and  reiterated  and  enforced  only  that  pure  mo- 
rality and  that  unfaltering  trust  as  to  the  truth  and  value 
of  Avhich  no  question  could  arise,  —  then,  indeed,  we 
might  have  been  ready  to  admit  that  critical  propositions 
which  all  the  wise  knew  need  not  be  repeated,  and 
that  the  ignorant  who  knew  them  not  would  be  no  better 


31G  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

nor  happier  for  liavinp;  theru  proclaimed  and  expounded. 
But  Mr.  Arnold  is  well  aware  that  the  "if"  supposed  is 
the  very  reverse  of  the  truth ;  that  the  majority  of  the- 
teachers  wlio  every  Sunday  get  up  into  their  pulpits  to 
"  edify  "  the  multitude  below  them,  neither  endeavor  to 
keep  the  difficulties  of  the  Old  Testament  in  the  hack- 
ground,  nor  are  conscious  of  the  existence  of  those  diffi- 
culties ;  hut,  on  the  contrary,  often  appear  with  a  kind  of 
])erverse  instinct  to  delight  in  Lringing  them  forward,  and 
dwelling  upon  them  till  tlie  thoughtful  are  unsjieakahly 
disgusted,  and  the  thoughtless  are  hopelessly  perplexed 
and  led  astray.  Mr.  Arnold's  assumption,  therefore,  of 
an  instructed  clergy  who  know  already  all  the  Bishop  can 
tell  them,  falls  to  the  ground  as  notoriously  at  variance 
with  facts. 

The  plain  truth  is,  that  the  assumption  of  an  instructed 
clergy  and  an  uninstructed  laity  is  a  purely  imaginary 
one ;  and  in  the  fact  that  this  line  of  demarcation  is  im- 
aginary lies  the  substantial  justification  of  all  Avorks  like 
l3r.  Colenso's.  It  is,  indeed,  only  through  the  laity  that 
we  can  instruct  the  clergy.  It  is  only  by  appealing  to 
the  jj'ojm his  that  the  citrus  c£[n  he  made  to  open  their  eyes 
or  to  guard  their  lips.  In  this  country  there  is  a  great 
analogy  between  the  only  eflectual  course  of  proceeding 
available  to  reformers  in  theological  and  in  political  mat- 
ters. Every  one  who  has  tried  has  been  compelled  to  ad- 
mit, with  bitterness  and  indignation,  that  if  he  desires  to 
bring  the  government  to  abandon  a  mistaken  system 
or  to  adopt  sounder  views,  it  is  not  to  members  of  the 
government  that  he  must  address  himself.  Time  so  em- 
ployed is  usually  thrown  away.  He  must  convince  the 
public,  not  the  ministers  ;  and  when  the  public  is  en- 
lightened and  persuaded  and  grows  noisy,  then  the  offi- 
cials follow  tardily,  reluctantly,  and  grumblingly  in  its 
M'ake.  Ecclesiastical  tenacity  in  adhering  to  old  ideas,  es- 
tablished ibrmulas,  obsolete  errors,  and  exploded  routine, 
is  at  least  a  nuitch  for  Inireaucratic  immovability  and  (to 
coin  a  word)  unconvinceability.  As  long  as  listeners  aie 
uninstructed,  preachers  will  continue  to  enunciate,  with 


TRUTH    VERSUS  EDIFICATION.  317 

the  same  security  as  heretofore,  the  drawling  platitudes, 
the  innutritious  ethics,  the  unbelievable  legends,  the 
startling  narratives,  the  uneditying  commentaries,  the  re- 
pellent dogmas,  with  which  it  is  their  inveterate  custom 
to  regale  their  audience,  —  and  will  call  these  thinc;s  tb.e 
saving  trutli  of  God.  Does  any  one  suppose  —  does  j\Ir. 
Arnold  fancy  —  that  if  the  mass  of  the  people,  the  ra- 
tional but  unlearned  laity,  were  once  conversant  with  the 
untenable  nature  of  the  doctrine  of  Plenary  Inspiration 
and  the  unhistoric  character  of  many  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment narratives,  the  pulpits  of  the  land  would  dare  to 
resound  Sunday  after  Sunday,  from  our  cradle  to  our 
grave,  with  the  dreary,  shallow,  unprofitable,  misleading 
verbiage  which  our  clergy  now  deem  good  enough  for 
hearers  who  know  no  better  ?  Does  any  one  believe 
that,  till  the  people  are  thus  enlightened,  there  is  any 
prospect  of  this  discreditable  and  injurious  state  of  tilings 
being  amended  ?  You  must  force  the  "accredited  teach- 
ers of  reliiiion"to  teach  truth  and  sense  and  edifying 
doctrine,  by  so  augmenting  the  capacities  and  require- 
ments of  their  flocks  that  they  cannot,  for  fear  of  being 
put  to  open  shame,  do  otherwise. 

Looking  at  all  these  considerations,  —  comparing  with 
much  sadness,  and  with  no  little  anger,  what  the  few 
really  instructed  clergy  believe  and  know,  with  what  the 
majority  of  the  clergy  habitually  preach,  —  we  are  driven 
to  affirm  that  there  is  a  sense,  and  a  most  essential  sense, 
in  which  works  like  Bishop  Colenso's  are  edifying  to  the 
general  public,  —  the  mass  of  reading  and  thinking, 
though  unlearned  men.  We  are  not  going  to  eulogize  the 
particular  volume  in  question.  Eegarded  as  a  philo- 
sophic treatise,  and  viewed  in  the  light  of  the  higher 
exegesis,  it  might  seem  weak  and  narrow  if  we  did  not 
receive  it  as  part  of  an  unfinished  Avhole.  Nearly  all  the 
efficiency  —  of  the  first  part  at  least  —  would  be  neutral- 
ized by  a  controversialist  who  should  at  once  concede 
th&.t  the  Jigures  of  the  Old  Testament — whether  from 
original  obscurity  of  notation  or  from  errors  of  co])yists 
arising  out  of  that  obscurity  —  are  obviously  unreliable. 


318  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

But  let  ns  remember  tliat  this  book  is  in  the  main  spe- 
cifically directed  against  the  position  of  those  divines  who 
maintain  the  verbal  ins]iiration,  the  entire  accuracy,  the 
iniassailable  textual  authority  of  every  part  and  of  every 
statement  in  the  Bible.  Tliis  position  is  most  crucially 
tested  and  most  effectually  and  irrecoverably  overthrown 
])y  precisely  such  minute  and  narrow  arguments  as  Dr. 
Colenso  has  adduced.  His  small  weapons  penetrate  where 
heavier  falchions  wonld  merely  make  a  dint.  The  multi- 
])lication-table  has  a  grasp  which  wull  hold  thousands  of 
minds  that  w^ould  slip  easily  away  from  any  philosophic 
syllogism  or  dilemma,  and  on  whose  pachydermatous 
nature  the  sharpest  shai'ts  of  rhetoric  would  be  blunted  or 
turned  aside.  Against  detailed  and  positive  dogmatism, 
detailed  and  microscopic  criticism  is  the  best  antagonist 
that  can  be  employed.  And  no  one  can  deny  that,  while 
it  leaves  (thus  far)  all  the  religions  value  of  the  Bible 
untouched,  as  an  assault  npon  the  dogma  in  question  — 
verbal  and  j^lenary  inspiration  —  the  Bishop's  book  is 
irresistible  and  its  success  complete. 

And  this  at  once  brings  us  to  the  proposition  to  which 
we  have  been  leading  up,  and  Mhich  waiTants  us  in 
characterizing  the  "Inquiry  into  the  Pentateuch"  as  emi- 
nently edifying.  Many  of  those  doctrines  of  Christianity, 
as  ordinarily  preached,  which  most  perplex  and  try  the 
faith  of  sincere  believers,  and  most  effectually  repel  from 
the  threshold  of  belief  thoughtful,  pure,  and  earnest  minds 
of  all  classes,  depend  for  their  authority  mainly  or  solely 
on  special  texts  and  passages,  which  are  often  at  variance 
with  the  general  tone  and  tenor  of  the  book.  These 
special  texts  and  passages  are  considered  conclusive,  and 
all  men  have  been  required  to  fall  prostrate  before  them, 
and  submissively  accept  their  teaching,  merely  on  the 
strength  of  that  dogma  of  verbal  inspiration  which  Dr. 
Colenso  so  effectually  overthrows.  It  cannot  be  too 
strongly  stated  that  nearly  all  the  difficulties  which  have 
stood  in  the  way  of  the  cordial  reception  of  the  pure  re- 
ligion of  Christ,  whether  by  foreign  heathens  or  by  native 
sceptics,  have  been  gratuitous,  artificial,  and  the  creation 


TRUTH    VERSUS  EDIFICATION.  319 

of  Christian  ministers  and  divines.  Thousands  npon 
thousands  would  have  accepted  the  rich  essentials  of  the 
New  Testament  readily  and  joyously,  who  could  not  ac- 
cept the  legends,  the  dogmas,  or  the  speculative  proposi- 
tions which  were  affirmed  to  form  ]jart  and  parcel  of 
Christianity,  to  be  inextricably  bound  up  in  its  nature, 
and  to  be  inferentially  involved  in  its  reception.  It  is' 
not  the  noble  poetry,  and  the  sublime  devotion,  and  the 
unfailing  trust  of  Job,  and  David,  and  Isaiah  ;  it  is  not 
the  fascinating  character,  the  solemn  grandeur,  the  elevat- 
ing, enriching,  guiding,  glorious  career  of  the  Saviour 
while  on  eartli ;  it  is  not  the  satisfying,  comforting, 
strenutheniufj,  convincing  views  of  our  relations  to  God 
our  Father  which  he  first  taught  and  made  us  compre- 
hend ;  it  is  not  those  grand  and  far-reaching  hopes,  nor 
those  grave,  sad  warnings,  nor  those  ineffable  and  inspir- 
ing consolations  which  we  may  gather  from  every  page 
of  the  N"ew  Testament  and  from  many  pages  of  the  Old,  — 
it  is  none  of  these  things  that  have  deterred  the  thought- 
ful and  the  good,  or  even  the  careless  and  the  critical, 
from  accepting  Christianity  on  their  knees  with  gratitude 
and  with  submission  as  the  greatest  boon  ever  offered  to 
struggling  and  aspiring  man.  All  these  things  would 
have  been  attractive,  not  repellent ;  and  these  things 
are  the  essence  of  the  faith  which  Jesus  taught  and  for 
which  he  lived  and  died.  But  the  angel  that  has  stood 
with  flaming  sword  at  the  gate,  and  has  driven  men  away 
from  the  threshold  of  that  Eden  of  Truth  and  Hope,  in 
which  they  might  have  found  rest  for  their  troubled  souls, 
strength  for  their  feeble  knees,  and  a  lamp  for  their  dark 
and  thorny  path,  has  been  this  very  doctrine  of  verbal 
inspiration  and  textual  correctness,  against  which  Dr. 
Colenso  has  broken  so  keen  a  lance. 

We  need  not  go  into  long  details ;  a  few  specified  in- 
stances will  do  the  work  as  effectually  as  a  hundred.  We 
need  only  remind  our  readers  that  it  is  on  the  aunwrity 
of  this  dogma,  and  on  this  alone,  that  educated  and  rational 
men  are  required,  as  the  very  condition,  as  it  were,  of 
their  admission  into  the  Temple,  to  accept  as  true  the  six 


320  LITEr.ARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

days  of  Creation  with  all  tlieir  rude  errors  and  tlieir 
singular  misconceptions  ;  the  Tree  of  Knowledge,  the 
Apple  and  the  Fall ;  tvo  statements  as  to  Noah's  ark  and 
the  aniinals  that  entered  it,  utterly  contradictory,  and 
Loth  incredible ;  the  ingenious  legend  of  the  Tower  of 
Babel ;  the  literal  version  of  the  Plagues  of  Egypt,  and 
•the  crowded  miracles  of  the  Exodus,  the  Passage  of  the 
Iicd  Sea,  the  Sojourn  in  the  Desert,  and  the  establish- 
ment in  Canaan ;  the  strange  and  more  than  strange 
stories  about  the  Patriarchs  ;  and,  to  crown  the  whole, 
the  directly  divine  origin  of  the  horrible  Levitical  instruc- 
tions. No  one,  of  course,  would  dream  of  accepting  these 
as  history,  if  not  constrained  to  it  by  the  dogma  of  verbal 
inspiration ;  nor,  were  it  not  for  this  dogma,  would  any 
one  feel  them  a  serious  obstacle  to  the  reception  of  all 
that  the  Old  Testament  contains  of  noble,  and  elevating, 
and  true,  in  its  teachings  of  "  the  ways  of  God  to  man." 

So  much  for  narratives.  In  the  matter  of  creed  and 
doctrine,  there  are  two  or  three  Articles  of  Faith  which 
have  more  than  any  other  stood  in  the  way  of  the  cordial 
and  grateful  reception  of  Ecclesiastical  Christianity  by 
the  most  pure  and  honest  minds,  —  those  whose  instincts 
of  justice  Mere  truest  and  strongest,  —  those  whose  con- 
ceptions of  the  Deity  were  the  most  lofty  and  consistent. 
These  are  the  doctrines  of  Vicarious  Punishment,  of 
Salvation  by  Belief,  and  of  Eternal  Damnation.  Of  these 
doctrines  —  as  now  promulgated  and  maintained  —  three 
things  may  in  our  judgment  be  confidently  asserted : 
that  they  were  undreamed  of  by  Christ ;  that  they  can 
never  be  otherwise  than  revolting  and  inadmissible  to  all 
whose  intuitive  moral  sense  has  not  been  warped  by  a 
regular  course  of  ecclesiastical  sophistry;  and  that  no 
Christian  or  sensible  divine  would  think  of  preaching 
them  were  they  not  inculcated,  or  supposed  to  be  incul- 
cated, by  isolated  te.xts  of  Scripture ;  and  were  it  not 
held  that  every  text  of  Scripture  is  authentic,  authorita- 
tive, indisputably  true,  and,  in  some  sense  or  other,  in- 
spired and  divine.  "We  are  driven,  therefore,  to  the 
conclusion  that  this  proposition,  or  theory,  or  dogma, — 


TEUTH    VERSUS  EDIFICATION.  321 

whichever  we  may  please  to  call  it,  —  is  mischievous  and 
hostile  to  the  pure  religion  of  Jesus  in  two  ways  :  it  de- 
ters thoughtful  and  sincere  minds  from  receiving  it,  and 
it  corrupts  and  complicates  and  stains  it  to  those  who 
have  received  it,  by  mingling  with  it  incongruous  and 
deteriorating  accretions.  To  destroy  this  dogma,  there- 
fore, to  demonstrate  its  untenability,  to  shake  its  hold  on 
both  the  teachers  and  the  taught,  is,  we  maintain,  to 
"  edify  "  in  a  peculiar  and  a  double  sense,  and  is  the  most 
signal  and  the  most  needed  service  which  a  good  and 
pious  man  can  render  to  the  sacred  cause  of  Christianity 
and  Truth. 

Apparently  ^Mr.  Arnold  has  been  somewhat  startled  by 
the  reception  of  his  first  paper,  and  the  impression  it  has 
produced  upon  the  minds  of  the  classes  whom  he  thought 
he  was  addressing ;  for  he  has  mingled  with  a  cordial  and 
well-merited  eulogium  of  "  Stanley's  Lectures  on  the 
Jewish  Church,"  which  has  just  appeared  in  the  same 
periodical,  an  elaborate  explanation  and  justification  of 
his  former  judgment.  This  attempted  justification  is,  in 
our  eyes,  a  singular  aggravation  of  the  offence,  and  con- 
tains more  injustice  and  unfairness  than  we  can  easily 
comprehend  in  a  writer  so  peculiarly  luciil  and  a  thinker 
ordinarily  so  exact.  The  tone,  the  assertions,  and  the 
arguments  resemble  far  more  those  of  a  baffled,  botliered, 
and  irritated  clergyman,  angry  with  a  controversialist  who 
had  dazzled  and  bewildered  him,  than  the  calm  treatment 
of  a  philosopher  who  is  serene  because  he  knows  that  he 
is  clear  and  feels  that  he  is  strong.  Mr.  Arnold  affirms 
that  Mr.  Burgon's  proposition,  that  "  Every  word,  every 
syllable,  every  letter  of  the  Bible  is  the  direct  utterance 
of  tlie  Most  High,"  is  a  tliousmul  times  less  false  than  Dr. 
Colen.so's  statement,  that  "  the  writer  of  Exodus,  while 
compiling  his  legend,  was  innocent  of  all  conscious  wrong 
or  deception."  So  at  least  we  read  his  singular  assertion. 
He  commends  Spinoza  for  saying  that  "  the  Bible  con- 
tains much  that  is  mere  history,  and,  like  all  history, 
sometimes  true  and  sometimes  false,"  —  because  Spinoza 
uttered  this  merely  as  a  speculative  idea,  and  "  brought  it 

14*  o 


322  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

into  no  juxtaposition  "  with  the  reh'gions  faith  of  Christen- 
dom. He  justifies  Galileo  in  declaring,  in  spite  of  Joshua, 
that  it  was  the  earth  and  not  the  sun  that  moved  ;  hut 
says  that  if  Galileo  had  "  placed  this  thesis  in  juxtaposi- 
tion with  the  Book  of  Joshua,  so  as  to  make  that  hook 
regarded  as  a  tissue  of  fictions,  then  his  '  the  earth  moves,' 
in  spite  of  its  absolute  truth,  would  liave  become  a  false- 
hood." Again,  in  order  to  condemn  Dr.  Colenso  hy  the 
contrast,  he  praises  Dr.  Stanley  for  telling  the  reader  that 
with  regard  both  to  the  numbers,  and  the  chronology, 
and  the  topographical  details  of  the  Israelitish  Journey, 
"  we  are  still  in  the  condition  of  discoverers,"  and  that 
"  suspense  as  to  such  matters  is  the  most  fitting  approach 
for  the  consideration  of  the  presence  of  Him  who  has 
made  darkness  his  secret  place."  How  could  he  lose 
sight  of  the  fact  that  this  "  exactness  "  as  to  all  details 
which  Dr.  Stanley  condemns,  is  the  most  marked  character- 
istic of  the  Biblical  writers,  and  that  precise  feature  of 
their  narratives  which  Dr.  Colenso  assails  and  exposes. 
Plainly  enough,  neither  Mr.  Arnold  nor  Dr.  Stanley  be- 
lieves the  details  given  by  the  sacred  writers  to  be  always 
"  exact " :  why  should  Dr.  Colenso  be  singled  out  for 
blame  because  he  undertakes  to  show  how  "inexact" 
they  are  ? 

Mr.  Arnold  takes  up  one  very  singular  position.  The 
"  intellectual  ideas  "  around  which  the  religious  life  of 
any  age  collects,  and  to  which  it  clings,  are  often,  he 
says,  inaccurate,  and  even  unfounded  ;  and  from  time  to 
time  are  discovered  and  proved  to  be  so.  New  views 
and  new  truths  are  established  in  reference  to  religious 
matters,  and  "  to  make  these  new  truths  harmonize  with 
the  religious  life  "  —  i.  e.  with  the  religious  feelings  of 
mankind  —  is,  he  admits,  a  task  which  must  sooner  or 
later  be  performed,  though  "  one  of  the  hardest  tasks  in 
the  world."  But  then  he  says  it  should  be  left  to  the 
Zeit-Geist,  or  Spirit  of  the  Time ;  or  if  ventured  upon  by 
any  man,  it  should  be  by  one  of  those  great  prophets 
who  only  appear  on  the  stage  once  in  many  ages.  Only 
an  Isaiah  or  a  Luther  ought  to  venture  on  translating  for 


TRUTH    VERSUS  EDIFICATION.  323 

tlie  world  the  new  intellectual  trutlis  and  religious  dis- 
coveiies  of  a  Spinoza  or  a  Hegel.  "  Lisensihhj"  he  says, 
these  new  ideas  should  percolate  downwards  and  around, 
till  the  nation  has  become  more  or  less  penetrated  with 
them,  and  "  the  time  comes  for  the  State,  the  collective 
nation,  to  intervene,"  and  adopt  and  adapt  them.  But 
wliat  does  he  mean  by  "insensibly  "  ?  And  how  is  this 
percolation  and  inoculation  to  be  effected  without  human 
agency  ?  "  Time,"  Mr.  Arnold  thinks,  will  do  it.  But 
what  is  Time  save  an  abstraction,  unless  it  means  the 
sum  of  influence  exerted  on  the  general  mind  by  some 
scores  of  writers  like  Dr.  Colenso  ?  How  could  "  Time  " 
operate  if  all  Colcnsos  are  to  be  condemned  to  everlasting 
silence  ?  To  live  forever  in  the  intellectual  ideas  of 
those  who  framed  the  Articles  and  the  Prayer  Book  is, 
Mr.  Arnold  avows,  impossible.  The  old  popular  notion 
of  the  Atonement  "is  barbarous  and  false."  The  new 
ideas,  being  the  true  ones,  must  somehow  or  another,  he 
feels,  —  "  insensibly  "  if  possible,  —  be  introduced  into, 
and  made  to  harmonize  with,  the  religious  life  of  the 
people.  But  it  must  not  be  done  by  proclaiming  them, 
by  arguing  for  them,  by  demonstrating  them,  before  the 
assembled  intelligence  of  the  nation.  It  must  be  done 
by  some  undescribed  mental  effluvia,  some  subtle  intel- 
lectual emanation,  homoeopathic,  and  therefore  at  once 
harmless  and  penetrating.  It  must  needs  be  (says  the 
Professor,  with  a  sigh  of  mingled  candor  and  resignation) 
that  enlightenment  come  ;  but  woe  to  that  man  through 
whom  it  comes !  And  the  woe  is  not  prophesied  for  him 
as  an  imprudent  man,  but  denounced  against  him  as  a 
dangerous  and  noxious  one. 

Mr.  Arnold,  in  the  strength  of  his  trained  intelligence 
and  from  the  height  of  his  accumulated  learning,  has 
been  enabled  to  sever  in  his  own  mind  the  questionable, 
inadmissible,  and  unworthy  portions  of  the  Scriptures 
from  their  cherished  essence,  their  grand  truths,  their 
sublime  conceptions,  and  their  guiding  light,  —  to  assimi- 
late the  one  and  discard  and  pass  by  the  other.  He  can 
say,  "  I  will  live  by  the  teaching  and  the  inspiration  of 


324  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL.  JUDGMENTS, 

Isaiah  and  Job,  and  David  in  his  finer  moods,  and  Clirist 
and  Paul ;  and  I  will  not  plague  myself  with  the  cruel- 
ties, and  sacerdotal  trivialities,  and  shocking  orders,  and 
astounding  narratives  of  Leviticus  and  Numbers.  Tliey 
pass  over  me  like  the  idle  wind  which  1  regard  not." 
But  v:ho  and  what  enables  him  thus  to  analyze  the  ore,  to 
clasp  the  gold  and  to  reject  the  dross  ?  Does  he  not  reilect 
that,  till  men  like  Colenso  have  cleared  the  way  and  done 
the  work,  and  achieved  for  him  the  eclectic  freedom  in 
which  he  revels,  all  that  he  discards  or  ignores  in  the 
Bible  may  be  forced  down  his  throat  as  equally  authori- 
tative, equally  essential,  equally  divine,  with  all  that  he 
accepts  ?  Does  he  not  remember  that,  as  long  as  that 
doctrine  of  Plenary  Inspiration,  at  which  Colenso  has 
struck  such  a  staggering  and  mortal  blow,  remains  erect, 
all  his  wise  and  just  discrimination  is,  in  the  eyes  of  or- 
dinary Christians,  ordinary  clergymen,  ordinary  churches, 
mere  daring  heresy  and  sin  ?  Can  he  not  pei-ceive  that 
Colenso  is  laboring  to  win,  Icgcdly,  jyuhluiy,  and  for  all, 
that  acknowledged  right  of  separating  God's  truth  from 
man's  assertion,  which  Mr.  Arnold,  2^cr  salfum,  by  law- 
less assumption,  in  his  secret  soul,  and  in  his  locked  closet, 
has  done  for  himself  alone  ? 

An  ordinary  believer  —  pious,  sincere,  knowing  not 
Colenso,  and  having  not  been  "  insensibly  "  inoculated  by 
the  subtle  emanations  of  the  Zeit-Gcist,  but  trained  in 
the  common  doctrine  of  Biblical  Inspiration  —  is  often 
put  to  sore  suffering  and  trial.  A  man  in  sacerdotal 
robes,  brought  up  at  the  feet  of  the  most  accredited 
Gamaliel,  stamped  as  sterling  by  the  image  and  super- 
scription of  the  National  Church,  addresses  him  thus : 
"You  are  bound  to  believe  —  for  it  is  all  written  in  the 
Inspired  Books  and  indorsed  by  the  Church  —  not  only 
that  God  created  man ;  called  Abraham  ;  led  the  Israel- 
ites out  of  Egyptian  bondage,  and  set  them  apart  and 
trained  them  as  a  peculiar  people ;  revealed  his  true 
character  and  relations  through  a  succession  of  prophets ; 
and  finally  completed  the  purification  and  redemption  of 
man  through  Jesus  Christ ;  —  but  also  that  he  directed 


TRUTH    VERSUS  EDIFIQATION.  325 

the  construction  of  Noah's  Ark,  and  sent  all  living  beasts 
therein  ;  aided  Jacob  in  a  filthy  fraud  ;  sanctioned  the 
basest  treachery ;  commanded  fearful  cruelties  and  un- 
merited penalties ;  permitted  the  flogging  of  slaves  to 
death,  provided  only  they  did  not  die  upon  the  spot ; 
showed  his  back  but  not  his  face  to  Moses  ;  and  dictated 
the  veracious  narrative  of  Balaam  and  his  ass.  You 
must  accept  the  one  set  of  statements  as  not  only  equally 
true,  but  equally  valuable  and  instructive,  with  the  other ; 
for  what  are  you,  that  you  should  dare  to  choose  between 
one  and  another  deed  or  word  of  the  Most  High,  or  place 
one  on  a  higher  level  than  another  ?  You  must  receive 
all  these  things,  on  peril  of  damnation ;  for  they  are  all 
written  in  the  Word  of  God  ;  everything  written  tlierein 
is  inspired :  and  to  reject  or  doubt  '  the  true  sayings  of 
God '  is  damnation."  An  ordinary  Christian,  thus  ad- 
dressed, either  succumbs  or  resists.  If  he  succumbs,  his 
reason  is  outraged  and  bewildered,  and  his  moral  sense  is 
shocked  and  injured.  If  he  resists,  he  is  made  miserable 
by  douhts,  misgivings,  and  tormenting  fears. 

The  same  man,  in  sacerdotal  garments,  comes  to  Mr. 
Arnold  and  addresses  him  in  the  same  words.  But  the 
Professor,  serene  and  unassailable  in  his  double  armor  of 
natural  intelligence  and  perfect  culture,  waves  him  aside 
with  a  gesture  of  supreme,  ineffable  disdain,  saying, 
"  Pooh,  pooh,  man  !  don't  talk  that  stuff  to  me." 

Now,  the  work  that  Dr.  Colenso  has  bound  himself  to 
do  —  and  which,  if  he  completes  his  labors  with  success, 
he  will  have  done  —  is  to  enable  the  poor  man  as  well 
as  the  savant  and  the  sage,  the  layman  as  well  as  the 
professor,  John  Smith  as  well  as  Matthew  Arnold,  to 
say  to  impertinent  teachers  from  the  uninstructed  Church, 
"  Pooh,  pooh  !  I  know  how  to  distinguish  the  building 
from  the  rubbish.  I  know  wherein  religious  truth  con- 
sists and  where  religious  life  lies.  Don't  choke  me  with 
your  regulation  loaf  of  fossil  sawdust,  and  tell  me  that  is 
the  Bread  of  Life." 

The  Bible  contains,  in  different  passages,  two  discre- 
pant ideas  of  the  nature  and  attributes   of  the  Supreme 


32G  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

Boinp:,  aliout  as  wide  asunder  as  ever  prevailed  amonj,' 
organized  and  civilized  nations.  It  is  only  by  the  estab- 
lisliment  of  the  doctrine  which  it  is  the  object  and  the 
justification  of  the  Bishop  of  Natal's  book  to  demonstrate, 
—  namely,  that  though  the  Bilde  contains  the  Word  of 
God,  it  is  not  the  Word  of  God,  but  contains  much  beside 
this,  and  much  that  is  irreconcilable  with  this,  —  that  we 
can  acquire  an  indefeasible  right  of  choosing  between 
these  two  discrepant  conceptions.  If  the  Bible  be  the 
"Word  of  God,  and  be  in  every  portion  of  it  true  and  in- 
spired, then  one  of  these  two  conceptions  is  just  as  correct 
and  authoritative  as  the  other,  and  we  are  not  entitled  to 
choose  the  lofty  and  to  reject  the  derogatory  one.  One 
of  these  conceptions  is  about  as  low  and  inadmissible  as 
a  rude  and  violent  people  ever  framed  for  themselves  in 
their  most  uncultivated  times.  The  other  is  the  noblest 
and  purest  that  human  imagination  ever  reached.  There 
is  the  God  who  showed  his  "  back  part "  to  Moses ;  and 
the  "  God  who  is  a  Spirit,  and  must  be  worshipped  in 
spirit  and  in  truth."  There  is  tlie  God  who  wrestled 
bodily  with  Jacob  and  who  fed  with  Abraham  in  liis  tent ; 
and  the  God  whom  the  heaven  of  heavens  cannot  con- 
tain, much  less  a  temple  made  with  hands.  Tliere  is  the 
God  who  talked  with  Moses  face  to  face  as  a  man  talketh 
to  his  friend;  and  the  God  "whom  no  man  hath  seen 
or  can  see,"  whom  "no  man  can  see  and  live."  There  is 
Jehovah,  who  was  the  national  and  selected  God  of  the 
Hebrews ;  and  there  is  our  Father  in  heaven,  who  dwell- 
eth  in  light  inaccessible  and  full  of  glory,  who  is  the 
dwelling-place  of  all  generations,  the  Father  of  the  spirits 
of  all  flesh.  There  is  the  God  of  Abraham  and  Isaac  and 
Jacob  ;  and  there  is  the  God  of  Isaiah,  of  Paul,  of  Christ. 
There  is  the  jealous,  angry,  and  relentless  God  of  the 
rudest  Jewish  fancy,  appeased  by  sacrifices  and  whole 
burnt-offerings,  repenting  him  of  what  he  had  done,  of 
what  he  had  threatened,  of  what  he  had  promised,  un- 
just according  even  to  our  poor  lumian  scales  of  equity 
and  righteousness ;  and  there  is  the  God  of  better  days ' 
and   truer  conceptions,  to  whom  whole  burnt-oflerings 


TRUTH    VEESUS  EDIFICATION.  327 

and  sacrifices  were  a  weariness  and  an  abomination,  with 
whom  is  no  variableness  or  shadow  of  turning,  long-suf- 
fering and  plenteous  in  mercy,  loving  all  his  creatures, 
and  loving  most  especially  those  whom  he  is  compelled 
to  chasten,  forgiving  till  seventy  times  seven,  giving  his 
only  begotten  Son  to  die  for  the  world  that  he  would 
save,  —  the  great  I  AM,  who  shall  wipe  away  all  tears 
from  all  eyes,  and  whom  the  pure  in  heart  shall  be  privi- 
leged to  see  at  last.  But,  if  Dr.  Colenso's  proposition  is 
not  to  be  established,  —  if  books  like  Dr.  Colenso's  are 
not  to  be  written  to  make  that  proposition  good,  —  it  will 
continue  to  be  in  the  power  and  the  practice  of  every 
bishop,  priest,  and  deacon  to  declare  that  the  one  con- 
ception is  as  true,  as  grand,  as  ennobling  as  the  other, 
since  both  came  equally  from  God,  and  both  are  equally 
inspired. 

We  have  spoken  plainly,  broadly,  and,  as  many  will 
say,  shockingly,  because  only  thus  can  we  awaken  men's 
minds  to  the  incommensurable  juagnitude  and  moment 
of  the  point  at  issue,  —  a  point  which  Mr.  Arnold  has  so 
strangely  and  suicidally  endeavored  to  cover  up.  Sui- 
cidally, we  say  ;  for  while  he  blames  Dr.  Colenso  for  not 
separating  the  living  gold  from  the  concealing  dross  of 
the  Pentateuch,  discerning  the  former  and  clinging  to  it, 
and  cherishing  it  as  the  essence  of  the  whole,  he  will  not 
see  that  the  Bishop,  more  methodical,  more  humble,  and 
more  comprehensive  than  himself,  is  laboring  to  demon- 
strate the  denied  and  denounced  rijlU  of  doing  this  very 
thing. 


TIME. 

THE  looseness  of  idea  which  is  traceable  in  many  of 
oar  semi-philosophic  phrases  and  opinions  oflers  a 
curious  subject  for  reflection.  Habitually,  partly  from  men- 
tal indolence,  probably,  partly  from  inherent  unscientific 
carelessness  of  mind,  we  are  satisfied  with  aj)2^roaches  to 
an  idea  about,  or  in  explanation  of,  the  phenomena  which 
catch  our  attention,  —  with  what  Dr.  Chalmers  used  to 
call  "the  inkling  of  an  idea," — not  so  much  with  half 
an  idea  as  with  the  raw  materials  of  an  idea.  We  are 
content  witli  feeling  that  a  conception,  and  probably  a 
true  conception,  lurks  under  the  expression.^  \ve  hear  and 
repeat ;  and  under  cover  of  this  inarticulate  sentiment  (for 
it  is  usually  nothing  more)  we  absolve  ourselves  from  the 
exertion  of  analyzing  the  conception,  embodying  it  in 
appropriate  language,  or  even  carrying  it  so  far  as  dis- 
tinct and  expressible  notions.  We  use  a  phrase,  and  then 
fancy  we  have  done  a  thing,, —  have  elucidated  a  fact  or 
given  utterance  to  an  idea.  AYe  employ  words,  not  to 
express  tliought,  nor  (as  Talleyrand  suggested)  to  conceal 
it,  but  to  liide  its  absence,  and  to. escape  its  toil. 

No  word  has  been  oftener  made  to  do  duty  in  this  way 
than  Time.  We  constantly  say  —  speaking  of  material 
things — that  "Time"  destroys  buildings, effaces  inscrip- 
tions, removes  landmarks,  and  the  like.  In  the  same 
way,  —  speaking  of  higher  matters  appertaining  to  men 
and  nations,  to  moral  and  intellectual  plienoniena, —  we 
are  accustomed  to  say  that  "  Time  "  obliterates  impres- 
sions, cures  faults,  solaces  grief,  heals  wounds,  extin- 
guishes animosities;    as  well  as  that   under   its  inlJu- 


TIME.  329 

ence  empires  decay,  people  grow  enliglitened,  errors  get 
troddan  out,  brute  natures  become  humanized,  and  so 
on,  —  tliat  the  world  "  makes  progress,"  in  short.  Now 
\vhat  do  we  mean  when  we  speak  thus ;  or  do  most  of  iis 
maan  anything  ?  What  are  the  mighty  and  resistless 
agencies  hidden  under  those  four  letters,  and  embodied 
in,  or  implied  by,  that  little  word  ? 

Sir  Humphry  Davy,  in  those  Consolations  in  Travel 
which  worthily  solaced  "the  last  days  of  a  philosopher," 
endeavored  to  answer  tliis  question  as  regards  mere  yjhys- 
ical  phenomana.  He  analyzes  the  several  causes  which, 
in  the  course  of  ages,  contribute  and  combine  to  produce 
the  ruins  which  cover  the  surface  of  the  earth,  and  most 
of  which  are  more  lovely  in  their  decay  than  ever  ia 
their  pristine  freshness.  Putting  aside  all  results  tracea- 
ble to  the  hand  of  man,  to  the  outrages  of  barbarian  in- 
vaders, or  the  greed  of  native  depredators, — leaving  out 
of  view,  too,  the  destruction  wrought  from  time  to  time 
by  lightning,  the  tempest,  and  the  earthquake,  —  he 
shows  that  the  principal  among  those  elements  of  de- 
struction, which  operate  slowly  and  surely,  generation 
after  generation,  are  traceable  to  heat  and  gravitation. 
More  precisely,  they  may  be  classed  under  two  heads,  the 
chemical  and  the  mechanical,  usually  acting  in  combina- 
tion, and  the  former  much  the  most  powerful  of  the  two. 
The  contraction  and  expansion  of  the  materials  of  which 
all  buildings  are  composed,  due  to  changes  of  tempera- 
ture, operate  to  loosen  their  cohesion,  especially  where 
wood  or  iron  enters  largely  into  their  composition  ;  and 
in  northern  climates,  wherever  water  penetrates  among 
the  stones,  its  peculiarity  of  sudden  and  great  expansion 
when  freezing  renders  it  one  of  the  most  effective  agen- 
cies of  disintegration  known.  The  rain  that  tails  year 
by  year,  independent  of  its  ceaseless  mechanical  eflect  in 
carrying  off  minute  fragments  of  all  perishal)le  materi- 
als, is  usually,  and  especially  near  cities,  more  or  less 
charged  with  carbonic  acid,  the  action  of  which  upon  the 
carbonate  of  lime,  which  forms  so  large  an  element  in 
most  stones,  is  sometimes  portentously  rapid,  as  indeed 


330  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

we  see  every  day  around  us.  The  air,  again,  through  the 
instrumentality  of  the  oxygen  which  is  one  of  its  com- 
ponent parts,  is  about  the  most  powerful  agency  of  de- 
struction furnished  by  tlie  wliole  armory  of  nature ;  it 
corrodes  the  iron  by  which  the  stones  arc  clamped  to- 
gether ;  it  causes  the  gradual  decny  of  •  tlie  timber  of 
which  the  roofs  of  buildings  are  usually  constructed,  so 
that  we  seldom  find  any  traces  of  them  in  the  more  an 
cient  remains  which  have  come  down  to  us.  Thus  the 
great  principle  of  organic  life  becomes  also,  in  its  inevi- 
table and  eternal  action,  the  great  agent  also  in  decay  and 
dissolution.  Then  follows  what  we  may  term  the  unin- 
tentional or  accidental  agencies  of  living  things.  As 
soon  as  the  walls  and  pediments  and  columns  of  a  statue 
or  a  temple  have  lost  their  polished  suiface  through  the 
operation  of  the  chemical  influences  we  have  enumer- 
ated, the  seeds  of  lichens  and  mosses,  and  other  parasitic 
plants,  which  are  constantly  floating  in  the  atmosphere, 
settle  in  the  roughnesses,  grow,  decay,  and  decompose,  form 
soil,  attract  moisture,  and  are  followed  by  other  and 
stronger  plants,  whose  roots  force  their  way  into  the  crev- 
ices thus  formed  by  "  Time,"  and  end  by  wrenching 
asunder  the  damaged  and  disintegrated  blocks  of  marble. 
The  animal  creation  succeeds  the  vegetable  and  aids  its 
destructive  operations  ;  the  fox  burrows,  the  insect  bores, 
the  ant  saps  the  foundations  of  the  building ;  and  thus 
by  a  series  of  causes,  all  of  them  in  the  ordinary  and 
undying  course  of  nature,  the  most  magnificent  edifices 
ever  raised  by  the  genius,  the  piety,  and  the  industry  of 
man  are  brought  to  an  end,  as  by  a  fixed  and  irreversible 
decree.  And  this  is  "Time,"  so  far  as  its  physical  agen- 
cies are  concerned. 

When  we  turn  from  the  influence  of  Time  on  the 
work  of  man's  hands  to  consider  its  influence  on  the  man 
himself,  we  find  a  very  different  mode  of  operation. 
"  Time "  with  individuals  acts  partly  through  the  me- 
dium of  our  capacities  and  powers,  but  more,  probably, 
through  our  defects,  and  the  feebleness  and  imperfection 
of  our  nature.     It  ought  not,  perhaps,  to  be  so,  but  it  is 


TIME.  331 

SO.  Time  heals  our  wounds  and  brings  comfort  to  our 
sorrows,  but  liov:  ?  '^  It  is  beneath  the  dignity  of  think- 
ing beings  "  (says  Bolingbroke)  "  to  trust  to  time  and  dis- 
traction as  the  only  cure  for  grief,  —  to  Avait  to  be  happy 
till  we  can  forget  that  we  are  miserable,  and  owe  to  the 
weakness  of  our  faculties  a  result  for  which  we  ought  to 
be  indebted  to  their  strength."  Yet  it  is  precisely  thus 
that  "  thinking  beings  "  generally  act,  or  find  that  "  Time  " 
acts  with  tliem.  Half  the  healing  influence  of  Time  de- 
pends solely  upon  the  decay  of  memory.  It  is  a  law  of 
nature  —  and  like  all  nature's  laws,  in  the  aggregate  of 
its  effects  a  beneficent  one  —  that,  while  the  active  pow- 
ers strengthen  with  exercise,  passive  impressions  fade 
and  grow  feeble  with  repetition.  The  physical  blow  or 
prick  inflicted  on  a  spot  already  sore  with  previous  inju- 
ries is  doubly  felt ;  the  second  moral  stroke  falls  upon  a 
part  which  has  become  partially  benumbed  and  deadened 
by  the  first.  Then  new  impressions,  often  far  feebler, 
often  far  less  worthy  of  attention,  pass  like  a  wave  over 
the  older  ones,  cover  them,  cicatrize  them,  push  them 
quietly  into  the  background.  We  could  not  retain  our 
griefs  in  their  first  freshness,  even  if  we  would.  As  Mr. 
Arnold  says :  — 

"  This  is  the  curse  of  life  :  that  not 
A  nobler,  calmer  train 
Of  wiser  thoughts  and  feelings  blot 
Our  passions  from  our  brain. 

"  But  each  day  brings  its  petty  dust, 
Our  soon  choked  souls  to  fill ; 
And  we  forget  because  we  must. 
And  not  because  we  will." 

In  a  word,  we  do  not  overcome  our  sorrow  c  we  only 
over-live  it.  It  is  succeeded,  not  subdued ;  covered  up, 
mossed  over,  like  the  temples  of  Egypt  or  the  tombs 
of  tlie  Campagna,  not  controlled,  transmuted,  reasoned 
down. 

It  is  the  same,  too,  usually  with  our  faults.  "Time" 
cures  them,  we  say.  It  would  be  more  correct  to  say 
that  it  removes  the  temptation  to  them.  Sometimes  it 
is  only  that  pleasures  cease  to  please ;  we  grow  wise  and 


832  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

good  through  mere  satiety,  —  if  wisdom  and  goodness 
that  come  to  us  through  such  an  operation  of  "  Time  "  Ije 
not  a  most  fallacious  and  cynical  misnomer.  The  pas- 
sions that  led  our  youth  astray  die  out  with  age  from  the 
slow  clianges  in  our  animal  Irame,  from  purely  physical 
modifications  o^'  our  constitution  ;  the  appetites  and 
desires  that  spring  i'roin  the  hot  hlood  and  abounding 
vigor  of  our  early  years  no  longer  torment  the  languid 
pulse  and  phlegmatic  temperament  of  after  life ;  the 
world  and  the  devil,  not  the  ilesh,  are  then  the  tempters 
to  be  prayed  against.     The  frailties  of 

"  Cheerful  creatures  whose  most  sinful  deeds 
Were  but  the  overb^ating  of  the  heart," 

come  easily  and  naturally  to  an  end  when  from  the 
dulled  emotions  and  impaired  vitality  of  advancing  age 
we  feel  nothing  vividly  and  desire  nothing  strongly. 
Time  does  not  so  much  cure  our  faults  as  hill  them. 

Sometimes  —  often,  indeed,  we  would  hope — Time 
brings  experience  in  its  train.  We  learn  that  vice 
"  does  not  pay."  We  discover  by  degrees  that  the  sin  is 
far  less  sweet  than  we  fancied,  and  that  it  costs  much 
dearer  than  we  had  bargained  for.  We  grow  better  cal- 
culators than  we  were ;  we  reflect  more  profoundly ;  we 
measure  and  weigh  more  accurately.  Occasionally,  no 
doubt,  "  Time  "  operates  through  a  nobler  class  of  influ- 
ences. The  observation  of  life  shows  us  the  extensive 
misery  wrought  by  all  wrong-doing ;  we  find  those 
around  us  whom  we  love  better  than  ourselves ;  and 
affection  and  philanthropy  gradually  initiate  us  into  vir- 
tue and  self-denial.  Growing  sense  aids  the  operations 
of  dulled-  sensibility ;  we  become  less  passionate  and 
fierce  as  our  nerves  become  less  irritable ;  we  drop  our 
animosities  as  failing  memory  ceases  to  remind  us  of  the 
ofiences  which  aroused  them,  and  as  a  calmer  judgment 
enables  us  to  measure  those  offences  more  justly ;  we  are 
less  willing  to  commit  crimes  or  neglect  duties  or  incur 
condemnation  for  the  sake  of  worldly  ad\ancement,  as 
we  discover  how  little  happiness  that  advancemtnt 
brings  us,  and  as  we  reflect  for  how  short  a  period  Me 


TIME.  333 

can  hope  to  enjoy  it.  But,  through  all  and  to  the  last, 
the  physical  intluence  of  "  Time  "  upon  our  bodily  frame 
is  the  best  ally  of  its  moral  influence  on  our  character 
and  our  intelligence.  Time  brings  mellowness  to  man 
much  as  it  brings  beauty  to  ruins,  —  by  the  operation  of 
decay.  We  melt  and  fade  into  the  gentle  and  the  good, 
just  as  palaces  and  temples  crumble  into  the  picturesque. 
When  we  come  to  speak  of  nations,  and  of  national 
progress,  the  idea  of  "  Time  "  embraces  a  far  wider  range 
of  influences,  both  as  to  number  and  duration,  which  we 
can  only  glance  at.  Time,  as  it  operates  on  empires  and 
on  peoples,  on  their  grandeur  and  tlieir  dfjcadence,  in- 
cludes the  aggregate  of  the  efforts,  separate  or  combined, 
of  every  individual  among  them,  through  a  long  succes- 
sion of  decades  and  of  centuries.  Mr.  JMatthew  Arnold, 
in  the  least  sound  of  his  many  sagacious  and  suggestive 
writings,  —  his  inconsiderate  attack  upon  Colenso,  — 
speaks  much  of  the  Zeit-Geist,  the  Spirit  of  the  Age,  and 
urges  us  to  trust  to  its  slow  and  irresistible  intluence, 
and  not  to  seek  to  hasten  it ;  tliat  is,  as  far  as  we  could 
understand  him,  to  abstain  from  all  those  acts  and  efibrts 
of  which  its  influence  is  made  up.  Mr.  Lecky,  again,  in 
his  admirable  and  philosophical  work.  The  History  of 
Rationalism,  especially  in  the  chapter  on  magic  and 
witchcraft,  writes  as  if  the  decay  of  superstition,  which 
he  clironicles  so  well,  were  owing  to  a  sort  of  natural 
spontaneous  growth  of  the  human  mind,  and  its  added 
knowledge,  and  not  to  any  distinct  process  of  reasoning, 
or  to  the  effects  of  the  teacliing  of  any  particular  men, — 
out  of  which  alone  in  truth  such  growth  could  come. 
But  "  Time,"  in  reality,  when  used  in  speaking  of  na- 
tions, means  nothing  but  the  sum  of  all  the  influences 
which,  in  the  course  of  time,  individual  laborers  in  the 
field  of  discovery,  invention,  reasoning,  and  administra- 
tion have  brought  to  bear  upon  the  world.  In  the  ^\■ork 
of  religious  truth  and  freedom,  "  Time  "  means  the  blood 
of  many  martyrs,  the  toil  of  many  brains,  slow  steps 
made  good  through  infinite  research,  small  heights  and 
spots  of  vantage-ground  won  from  the  retiring  forces  of 


334  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

ignorance  and  prejudice  l)y  generations  of  stern  struggle 
and  still  sterner  j^atience,  gleams  of  light  and  moments 
of  inspiration  interspersed  amid  years  of  darkness  and 
despondency,  thousands  of  combatants  falling  on  the 
field,  thousands  of  laborers  dying  at  the  ])lougli,  —  with 
here  and  there  a  Moses  mounting  the  heights  of  Pisgah 
to  survey,  through  the  mist  of  tears  and  with  the  eye  of 
faith,  the  promised  land  which  his  followers  may  reach 
at  last.  In  material  progress,  in  those  acts  of  lii'e  which 
in  their  aggregate  make  up  the  frame-work  and  oil  the 
wheels  of  our  complicated  civilization,  "  Time  "  signifies 
the  hard-won  discoveries  of  science,  augmented  by  the 
accessions  of  each  succeeding  age  from  Thales  and  Archi- 
medes to  Newton  and  Davy ;  the  practical  sagacity  and 
applicative  ingenuity  of  hundreds  of  inventors  like  Ark- 
wright  and  Watt,  Stephenson  and  Wheatstone  (to  whom 
we  owe  the  cotton  manufacture  and  the  steam-engine, 
the  railway  and  the  telegraph),  as  well  as  the  humbler 
and  unremembered  labors  of  the  thousands  whose  minor 
contrivances  paved  the  way  for  their  great  completors ; 
the  innumerable  contributions,  age  after  age,  of  the  pro- 
fessional or  speculative  men  who  at  last  have  made  medi- 
cine and  surgery  what  they  now  are ;  finally,-  tlie  daily, 
unacknowledged,  half-unconscious,  because  routine,  exer- 
tions of  the  rulers  and  administrators  who  have  rendered 
these  great  victories  of  peace  possible  because  they  have 
enabled  those  who  achieved  them  to  labor  in  security 
and  in  hope.  As  far  as  "  Time  "  has  made  the  world,  or 
any  nation  in  it,  wiser  and  better,  it  is  because  wise  and 
good  men  have  devoted  that  brief  fragment  of  Time 
which  was  allotted  to  them  here  below  to  the  task  of  en- 
lightening and  encouraging  their  fellow-men,  to  render- 
ing virtue  easier  and  wisdom  more  attractive,  to  remov- 
ing obstacles  in  the  path  of  moral  progress,  to  dragging 
up  the  masses  towards  the  position  which  the  elite  had 
previously  attained.  Where  nations,  once  in  thraldom, 
have  won  liberty  and  independence,  it  is  not  the  cold 
abstraction  of  "  Time  "  that  has  enfranchised  them,  but 
tyrants  that  have  so  misused  time  as  to  make  sufferers 


TIME.  335 

desperate ;  prophets  who  have  struck  out  the  enthusiasui 
that  makes  sufferers  daring  because  hopeful,  and  patriots 
who  have  been  found  willing  to  die  for  an  idea  and  an 
aim. 

And,  to  look  on  the  reverse  of  the  picture,  when  in  its 
ceaseless  revolutions  "Time,"  which  once  brought  pro- 
gress and  development,  shall  have  brought  decay  and 
dissolution,  the  agencies  in  operation  and  their  modus 
operandi  present  no  difficult  analysis.  Sometimes  the 
same  rough  energy  which  made  nations  conquerors  at 
first  makes  them  despots  and  oppressors  in  the  end,  and 
rouses  that  hatred  and  thirst  for  vengeance  which  never 
waits  in  vain  for  opportunities,  if  only  it  wait  long 
enough ;  and  the  day  of  peril  surprises  them  with  a  host 
of  enemies  and  not  a  single  friend.  Usually  the  wealth 
which  enterprise  and  civilization  liave  accumulated  brings 
luxury  and  enervation  in  its  train ;  languor  and  corrup- 
tion creep  over  the  people's  powers,  exertion  grows  dis- 
tasteful, and  danger  repels  where  it  formerly  attracted ; 
degenerate  freemen  hire  slaves  to  do  their  work,  and 
mercenaries  to  tight  their  battles :  and  no  strength  or 
vitality  of  patriotism  is  left  to  resist  the  attacks  of 
sounder  and  hardier  barbarians.  Occasionally,  in  the 
process  of  territorial  aggrandizement,  a  nation  outgrows 
its  administrative  institutions  ;  the  governmental  system 
and  the  ruling  faculties,  which  sufficed  for  a  small  state, 
prove  altogether  unequal  to  the  task  of  managing  a  great 
one,  and  the  empire  or  republic  falls  to  pieces  from  lack 
of  cohesive  power  within  or  coercive  power  above.  Not 
unfrequently,  it  may  be,  the  mere  progress  of  rational 
but  imperfect  civilization  brings  its  peculiar  dangers  and 
sources  of  disintegration  ;  the  lower  and  less  qualified 
classes  in  a  nation,  always  inevitably  the  most  numerous, 
rise  in  intelligence  and  wealth,  and  grow  prosperous  and 
powerful ;  institutions  naturally  become  more  and  more 
democratic  ;  if  the  actual  administration  of  public  affairs 
does  not  pass  into  the  hands  of  the  masses  or  their  nom- 
inees, at  least  the  policy  of  the  nation  is  moulded  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  views  of  the  less  sagacious  and  more 


330  LITERARY   AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS, 

passionate  part  of  the  connnunity ;  the  mischief  is  done 
unconsciously -but  iiTetiie\ably,  and  the  catastrophe 
conies  without  bein^  cither  intended  or  foreseen.  In 
other  cases,  states  and  monarchies  come  to  an  end 
simply  because  they  have  no  lony;er  a  raison  d'etre, — 
because  they  never  had  in  them  the  elements  of  perma- 
nence ;  because  destructive  or  disintegrating  causes,  long 
in  operation,  have  at  last  ripened  into  adequate  strength. 
The  Ottoman  Power  is  falling  because  the  military  spirit 
which  ibunded  it  has  died  away,  and  it  has  no  other 
point  of  superiority  to  the  people  over  whom  it  rules : 
because  the  Turks  are  stagnant  and  stationary,  and  the 
Greeks  are  an  fond  a  progressive  though  a  corrupt  and. 
undeveloped  race.  Austria,  too,  a  while  ago  seemed 
crumbling  to  pieces,  because  composed  of  a  host  of  in- 
congruous elements,  and  because  neither  the  genius  to 
fuse  them  nor  the  vigor  to  coerce  them  could  be  found 
among  their  rulers. 

Is  there,  then,  no  permanence  in  any  earthly  thing  ? 
Must  nations  forever  die  out  under  the  slow  corrosion 
of  "  Time,"  as  surely  as  men  and  the  monuments  men 
rear  ?  Is  there  no  principle  of  vitality  strong  enough  to 
defy  at  once  assaults  from  without  and  disintegration 
from  within ;  no  elixir  vitcc  discoverable  by  the  accu- 
mulated sagacity  and  experience- of  centuries,  by  means 
of  which  the  essential  elements  of  national  life  can  be  re- 
newed as  fast  as  they  consume,  and  the  insidious  causes 
of  decay  watched  and  guarded  against  the  instant  they 
begin  to  operate,  and  counteracted  ^jari  ^9fl,ss7t  with  their 
operation  ?  In  a  word,  cannot  the  same  wisdom  and  self- 
knowledge  which  tell  nations  ichy  and  how  they  degener- 
ate and  die,  discover  antidotes  against  degeneracy  and 
death  ?  Or  is  Fate  too  mighty  for  human  resistance  ?  — 
that  is,  to  speak  more  piously  and  definitely,  has  Provi- 
dence decreed  that  the  progress  of  the  race  shall  proceed 
by  a  succession  of  states  and  peo})les,  and  not  by  the 
adaptation  and  perfectation  of  existing  ones  ;  and  must 
nations  perforce  forego  the  noble  egotism  of  immortal 
life,  and  be  content  to  live  vicariously  in  their  ofispriiig 


TIME.  337 

and  inheritors  ?  The  question  is  of  infinitely  small  mo- 
ment except  to  our  imaginations,  but  there  is  surely  no 
reason  why  the  dearer  and  more  human  hope  should  not 
be  realized,  thougli  we  may  be  ages  distant  from  the  day 
of  realization.  We  have  all  the  preserving  salt  that  lies 
latent  in  the  true  essence  of  Christianity,  as  yet  so  little 
understood ;  we  are  learning  to  comprehend,  far  better 
than  the  ancients  and  our  ancestors,  in  what  rational 
patriotism  consists,  and  wherein  lie  the  real  interests  of 
republics  and  of  empires  ;  all  the  needed  pharmacopceia 
of  policy  is  within  our  reach  as  soon  as  w^e  thoroughly 
know  our  constitutions,  and  have  the  virtu6  and  the 
nerve  to  apply  the  remedies  in  time.  If  there  had  been 
Conservators  of  the  Coliseum,  versed  in  all  the  distinctive 
and  reparative  agencies  of  Nature,  vigilantly  watching 
the  one  and  promptly  applying  the  other,  the  Coliseum 
would  have  been  standing  iu  its  strength  and  its  beauty 
to  this  hour. 


15 


GOOD  PEOPLE. 

THEPtE  are  more  good  people  in  the  world  than  is 
commonly  believed,  —  or,  rather,  more  people  are 
entitled  to  be  called  "  good  "  than  those  to  whom  it  is 
the  custom  to  apply  and  to  confine  the  epithet.  The 
consciously  pious  and  the  ostensibly  philanthropic  have 
been  accustomed  to  think  of  themselves  as,  if  not  exclu- 
sively, at  least  peculiarly,  the  good,  —  the 

*'  Salt  of  the  Earth,  the  virtuous  few 
AVho  season  humankind  "  ; 

and  usually  the  world  has  taken  them  at  their  own  valu- 
ation, and  has  tacitly  conceded  to  them  a  sort  of  patent 
for  the  use  of  the  adjective  in  question.  They  have, 
as  it  were,  been  diploma-ed  and  laureated  to  this  effect, 
stamped  with  the  Hall  Mark,  decorated  with  the  cross  of 
this  Legion  of  Honor.  No  doubt  they  deserve  it,  so  far 
as  fallible  and  blundering  mortals  can;  we  have  not 
a  word  to  say  in  derogation,  where  they  are  sincerely  de- 
vout and  honestly  and  actively  benevolent.  It  is  natural 
they  should  feel  warranted  in  preferring  the  claim  ;  and 
it  is  natural  the  world  should  admit  it  without  demur. 
The  religious  man  is  conscious  of  loving  and  worship- 
ping God,  who  is  the  source  and  centre  of  all  good  ;  and 
the  philanthropist  is  conscious  of  loving  and  of  trying  to 
serve  his  fellow-creatures,  and  of  striving  to  become  the 
instrument  of  carrying  out  God's  designs  of  good  towards 
them.  Both  are  pointedly  and  directly  laboring  to  make 
men  happier  and  better ;  the  first  is  endeavoring  to  he 
good,  and  the  second  to  do  good  ;  both,  therefore,  have 
a  right  to   think   themselves,   and  to  be   thought   by 


GOOD  PEOPLE.  339 


others,  "  good  people."  But  several  considerations  must 
be  weighed  before  we  can  consent  to  regard  them  as  the 
only  good  people,  or  even  as  the  goodest  people  extant. 

We  need  not  speak  of  those  wliose  benevolence,  how- 
ever restless  and  untiring,  is  so  prompted  and  alloyed  by 
vanity  as  to  be  in  truth  rather  a  pardonable  weakness 
than  a  praiseworthy  virtue;  nor  of  those  with  whom 
it  is  an  impulse  rather  than  an  aim,  an  effort  more  to  re- 
lieve their  own  emotions  than  to  assuage  the  sufferings 
or  supply  the  wants  of  others ;  nor  again  of  those  in 
whom  it  is  so  blended  with  conceit  and  ignorance  that 
they  usually  do  mischief  when  striving  to  do  good,  whose 
shallow  notions  never  dream  of  mistrusting  their  own 
sagacity,  when  they  know  that  their  feelings  are  kindly, 
and  fancy  that  their  motives  are  pure;  who  shrink  from 
the  indispensable  fatigue  and  delay  of  preliminary  re- 
flection and  research,  and  deem  that  philanthropy  is  an 
easy  profession,  needing  nothing  but  a  warm  heart  and 
an  open  purse.  Yet  these  three  classes  constitute,  it  is 
probable,  four  fifths  of  the  recognized  philanthropists. 
Nor  need  we  speak  of  those  self-deceivers,  whose  religion, 
geimine  in  its  way,  no  doubt,  is  only  a  somewhat  more 
far-sighted  and  less  ignoble  egotism,  —  what  Coleridge 
happily  described  as  "  other- worldliness,"  —  a  self-seek- 
iug,  whose  reward  is  placed  in  a  loftier  sphere,  and  fixed 
at  a  higher  rate,  but  is  an  undisguised  self-seeking  still ; 
men  and  women  who  can  never  rise  to  the  idea  of 
"serving  God  for  naught,"  and  whose  devotion  and 
pious  observances  are  little  else  than  a  sagacious  and 
safe  investment.  We  have  in  view  at  present  the 
simply  and  disinterestedly  pious  and  the  purely  and 
truly  beneficent,  to  whom  no  one  would  deny  or  grudge 
the  praise  of  being  indisputably  "  good  people " ;  and 
all  we  wish  to  say  is,  that  there  are  many  other  sorts 
of  people,  equally  good  if  judged  by  simplicity  and 
purity  of  purpose,  —  perhaps  more  good  if  judged  by 
tlie  issue  of  their  labors,  —  wliose  claim  to  share  tlie 
epithet  is  yet  rarely  put  forward  and  not  always  recog- 
nized. 


340  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

There  can  be  no  question  that  doing  good,  in  some  one 
or  other  of  the  many  tliousand  ways  in  which  good  may 
be  done,  is  the  purpose  for  wliich  we  are  sent  upon  the 
earth  and  suffered  to  remain  there.  Our  position  is  that 
"good  people,"  and  those  who  are  inclined  to  canonize 
them,  take  habitually  far  too  narrow  a  view  of  what  "  do- 
ing good  "  is,  — a  view  sometimes  so  narrow  as  to  be  al- 
together erroneous.  Their  mistake  lies  in  assuming  tliat 
those  who  do  not  do  good,  or  who  are  not  good,  in  their 
way,  are  not  being  or  doing  good  at  all.  To  do  good  is 
to  carry  out  God's  intentions  in  tlie  creation  of  the 
human  race,  to  co-operate  with  his  designs,  to  work 
towards  his  ideal,  —  in  fact  and  in  fine,  to  assist  in  the 
progress  of  the  world,  using  the  word  "  progress  "  in  its 
truest  and  highest  sense.  Everything  by  which  man  is 
ripened,  purified,  or  benefited,  by  which  society  is  im- 
proved, upheld,  and  advanced,  by  which  life  is  rendered 
less  "  illiberal  and  dismal,"  by  which  humanity  is  really 
civilized  and  carried  forward  nearer  to  its  full  de^•elop- 
ment  and  its  widest  conquests,  is  right,  is  needed ;  and 
every  man  who  does  any  of  these  things  in  a  pious  spirit, 
with  a  hearty  will,  in  a  workmanlike  fashion,  is  "  doing 
good."  An  incalculable  multiplicity  of  agencies  go  to 
make  up  the  sum  of  human  progress.  Poetry,  music, 
good  go^■ernment,  sound  finance,  masterly  engineer- 
ing, mechanical  invention,  scientific  discovery,  patient 
thougiit,  are  all  needed  for  the  well-being  and  perfecta- 
tion  of  civilized  life,  and  for  the  development  of  our 
capacities  of  achievement  and  enjoyment ;  and  every 
man  who  pursues  any  one  of  these  callings,  or  of  their 
countless  subsidiary  ones,  conscientiously  and  thoroughly, 
and  to  the  best  of  his  power,  is  just  as  truly  "  a  fellow- 
"worker  together  with  God  in  exploring  and  giving  efi'ect 
to  the  beneficent  tendencies  of  Kature"  as  the  mission- 
ary, the  ostensible  philanthropist,  or  the  cloistered  nun. 
Probably  we  may  go  yet  further  and  open  wider  still  the 
boundary  of  practical  good  deeds ;  the  merchant,  and 
manufacturer,  and  shipwright,  and  all  the  honest  and 
diligent  workmen  whom  they  respectively  employ,  may 


GOOD  PEOPLE.  341 


with  equal  truth  claim  "  to  be  about  their  Father's  l)usi- 
iiess,"  to  be  carrying  out  the  divine  plans,  to  be  toiling  in 
their  fit  vocation  for  tlie  future  of  mankind,  since  with- 
out them  progress  could  scarcely  have  been ;  and  pro- 
ductive industry,  and  the  commerce  that  spreads  tlie 
results  of  that  industry  from  shore  to  shore,  have  long 
been  recognized  as  among  the  most  efficient  civilizing 
agents  upon  earth.  To  none  of  these  men  or  these 
classes,  then,  —  neither  to  the  poet,  nor  the  thinker,  nor 
the  statesman,  nor  the  inventor  or  discoverer,  nor  the  en- 
gineer, nor  the  sailor,  nay,  not  even  to  the  humblest  pri- 
vates who  serve  under  tliese  chiefs,  —  is  the  pious  man 
or  tlie  philanthropist  entitled  to  say,  "  I  am  doing  God's 
work,  I  am  doing  good,  I  am  religious,  —  you  are  not." 
All  are  fellow-laborers ;  all  are  indispensable  to  the 
grand  aggregate  residt ;  and  nothing  would  seem  neces- 
sary to  constitute  a  man  truly  and  worthily  a  faithful 
servant  of  his  IMaster's  will,  a  co-operator  with  the  Most 
High,  —  a  "doer  of  good,"  in  short, — than  that  of  the 
tliousand  agencies  which  carry  on  the  world's  life,  and 
oil  the  world's  wheels,  and  assist  the  world's  advance, 
he  should  choose  that  for  which  he  is  best  fitted,  or 
which  is  most  obviously  incumbent  on  him,  or  which 
lies  nearest  to  him,  and  should  pursue  it  with  steady 
effort,  and,  as  far  as  human  weakness  will  permit,  with 
a  single  mind.  Qui  lahorat  oral.  Every  true  toiler 
in  an  honest  calling  is  toiling  for  the  onward  march  and 
mending  of  humanity ;  and  not  .the  less  so  that  he  is 
often  half  unconscious  —  sometimes  quite  unconscious 
—  of  his  noble  mission,  and  would  be  amazed  to  be  told 
that  he  was  "  doing  good  "  Avhen  he  fancied  he  was  only 
doing  his  duty ;  not  the  less  so,  too,  that  he  usually 
thinks  only  of  the  next  step  and  the  immediate  issue, 
and  seldom  or  never  of  the  annexed  dignity  or  the  ulti- 
mate and  indirect  reward.  The  Kuler  of  the  Universe 
has  martyrs  everywhere  and  in  every  cause,  who  never 
plume  themselves  upon  their  martyrdom,  soldiers  who 
never  pause  to  think  that  they  are  "  fighting  a  good 
fight,"  but  are 


342  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

"Content,  like  men  at  amis,  to  cope 
Each  with  his  fronting  foe  "  ;  — 

laborers  by  the  thousand  wlio  go  about 

"  That  daily  ronnrl,  that  common  task. 
Which  furnish  all  we  ought  to  ask," 

never  dreaming  that  they  are  thus  ranking  among  God's 
fellow-laborers,  and  therefore  never  inflated  or  intoxi- 
cated by  the  dream  ;  faithful  and  zealous  servants  who  do 
His  will  without  putting  on  his  liveiy ;  following  his  point- 
ing without  a  thought  for  the  honor  or  a  care  about  the 
wages,  and  mixing  neither  eye  nor  lip  service  with  their 
tasks. 

The  truth  is,  that  we  seldom  realize  the  vast  multipli- 
city of  converging  contributions  needful  for  the  advance- 
ment and  welfare  of  humanity;  all  the  conflicts,  the 
ventures,  the  struggles,  the  sacrifices  which  conduce  to 
the  great  result ;  to  which  the  simple  unreflecting  efforts 
of  the  private  who  merely  stands  sentinel  or  marches  in 
the  conquering  ranks  are  as  indispensable  as  the  skill  of 
the  general  who  arranges  the  plan  of  the  campaign,  or  the 
genius  of  the  ruler  or  philosophic  statesman  wlio  keeps 
his  eye  upon  the  ultimate  purpose,  understands  the  best 
way  to  its  attainment,  and  can  distinctly  measure  and 
direct  towards  it  the  actions  of  the  undiscerning  multi- 
tude. In  order  that  the  world  should  make  progress, 
that  each  generation  should  be  happier  and  better  than 
its  predecessor, 

f  that  each  to-morrow 
Find  us  further  than  to-day," 

it  is  necessary,  in  the  first  place,  that  more  food  should 
be  provided,  and  should  be  more  amply  and  equally  dis- 
tributed ;  and  every  man,  therefore,  who  facilitates  the 
processes  of  agriculture  by  machinery  or  science,  or  who 
renders  labor  more  efficient,  is  not  only  a  fellow-worker 
in  the  great  common  cause,  but  a  fellow- worker  with- 
out whose  contribution  that  cause  could  not  possibly 
advance.  It  is  a  beautiful  and  salutary  arrangement 
which  we  seldom  reflect  on  as  we  ought,  that  as  a  rule 
men  can  only  become  rich  and  great  by  supplying  some 


GOOD  PEOPLE.  343 


want  of  their  fellow-men,  by  doing  some  work  for  otliers 
which  otliers  need  and  are  willing  to  pay  for,  be  that 
work  moral  guidance  or  material  provision.  We  cannot 
rise  to  command  except  by  stooping  to  serve  ;  we  cannot 
obtain  conspicuous  station  among  men  or  power  over 
them  without  in  some  way  or  other  rendering  ourselves 
necessary  or  useful  to  them ;  we  can  scarcely  seek  our 
own  fortune  without,  intentionally  or  unconsciously, 
ministering  to  others,  and  thereby  under  overruling  di- 
rection "  doing  good."  If  the  son  is  to  be  more  comforta- 
bly clad  and  more  wholesomely  housed  than  his  father,  if 
the  poor  man's  home  is  to  be  made  more  decent  and 
more  lovable  as  time  goes  on,  think  for  a  moment  of  the 
incalculable  services  which  the  cotton-spinner,  and  the 
cloth-weaver,  and  the  inventor  of  better  bricks,  and  the 
builder  of  roomier  and  firmer  dwellings,  and  the  contri- 
ver of  skilful  drainage  and  ready  water-supply,  render  to 
these  ends,  —  each  in  his  respective  line,  and  each  look- 
ing only  to  the  immediate  aim,  and  not,  or  only  casually, 
to  the  ultimate  result ;  and  consider  then  whetlier  we 
are  not  guilty  of  a  curious  oversight  and  partiality  in 
concentrating  our  admiration  and  applause  so  exclusi\'ely 
upon  the  testator  who  founds  almshouses,  and  the  Dorcas 
who  cuts  out  garments  and  gives  them  gratis  or  half 
gratis  to  the  poor.  "  Cotton-spinning  "  (says  Mr.  Carlyle) 
"  is  the  clothing  of  the  naked  in  its  result,  —  the  triumph 
of  mind  over  matter  in  its  means."  Think,  again,  of  the 
countless  toil  and  the  consummate  skill  of  tlie  adminis- 
trator or  the  legislator  who  manages  that  the  social  ma- 
chinery of  the  state  shall  work  smoothly  and  securely, 
so  that  the  providers  of  food,  clothing,  and  shelter  shall 
be  able  to  go  steadily  forward  with  their  work,  and  do 
honor  to  the  humblest  functionary  in  the  complicated 
organism  of  government,  if  only  he  be  faithful  and  ca- 
pable as  well  as  humble.  Then  turn  to  the  men  of  sci- 
ence, whether  abstract  or  applied:  were  Newton  and 
La]jlace,  think  yovi,  less  truly  "  doers  of  good,"  less  grand 
philanthropists,  less  undeniable  or  less  indispensable  con- 
tributors to  the  well-being  of  their  race,  than  John  How- 


344  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS, 

ard,  Xavier,  or  Las  Casas  ?  "Which  have  alleviated  most 
misery,  prolonged  or  preserved  most  life,  Avijjed  Awny 
most  tears,  Harvey  and  Jenner,  the  inventor  of  chloro- 
form, the  skilful  surgeon  and  the  wise  physician,  or 
the  charitable  magnates  and  missionaries  who  are  be- 
lieved to  "go  about  doing  good,"  and  whom,  therefore, 
we  are  prone  to  regard  as  especially,  if  not  exclusi\'oly, 
the  imitators  of  our  ])ivine  Master  ?  Or,  again,  take 
the  princes  of  engineering  genius,  or  some  grand  invent- 
ors, such  as  James  Watt,  Stephenson,  and  Wheatstone ; 
count  up  what  they  have  done  for  mankind,  how  they 
have  multiplied  and  extended  its  capacities  of  action  as 
well  as  enjoyment ;  and  then  ask  yourself  what  osten- 
sible philanthropist  —  nay,  what  generation  of  ])hilan- 
thropists  —  can  compare  their  achievements  with  the 
blessings  conferred  by  the  steam-engine,  the  raihvay,  and 
the  telegraph.  Yet  these  men,  it  is  probable,  seldom  re- 
flected definitely  on  the  good  they  were  doing  to  the 
^^■orld,  or  measured  in  imagination  half  its  range,  or 
prided  themseh'es  consciously  ui)on  being  benefactors  of 
their  species.  They  drew  their  inspiration  i'rom  a  source 
less  tainted  with  the  fumes  of  even  a  noble  egotism. 
They  loved  their  science  for  its  own  sake ;  they  simply 
obeyed  the  sound  dictates  of  a  sound  nature ;  they  exer- 
cised their  talents,  they  followed  their  instincts,  tliinking 
of  their  work,  not  for  themsehes,  nor  even  much  probably 
of  their  work's  vilterior  results  of  civilizing  beneficence  ; 
but,  in  acting  thus,  they  did  what  God  had  sent  them  into 
the  world  to  do,  and  so,  half  unconsciously,  but  still  re- 
ligiously because  straightforwardly  and  dutifully,  fulfilled 
the  purposes  of  their  existence.  They  may,  some  of  them, 
have  been  half  Pagans  ;  they  may  have  thought  little  of 
prayer,  and  less  of  Church  ;  they  may  seldom  have  given 
so  much  as  a  passing  reflection  of  self-complacent  bene\  o- 
lence  to  the  fellow-creatures  in  Avhose  cause  they  were 
thus  ploddiugly  and  serenely  spending  life  and  strength  ; 
yet  nevertheless  the  Creative  Spirit  has  had  few  more  in- 
telligent instruments,  more  devoted  messengers,  more  ef- 
ficient fellow-workers. 


GOOD  PEOPLE.  345 


"  In  tlieir  own  task  all  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attained  the  mighty  life  ye  see." 

One  of  the  commonest  and  most  deep-seated,  and  per- 
haps not  the  least  pernicious  fallacy  in  our  estimate  of 
relative  "  goodness  "  lies  in  our  disj)osition  to  rank  nega- 
tive above  j)*5sitive  virtue,  —  abstinence  from  wrong 
above  active  duty  and  distinguished  service.  There  is 
surely  a  higher  and  completer  decalogue  than  the  purely 
prohibitory  one  of  Sinai,  taught  us  by  One  who  surpassed 
and  superseded  ]\Ioses.  "  Thou  shalt "  appeals  to  nobler 
natures  and  befits  a  more  advanced  civilization  than 
"Thou  shalt  not."  The  early  Israelites,  just  emerging 
from  the  double  degradation  of  semi-ljarbarism  and  of 
slavery,  and  soiled  with  the  brutal  passions  and  the  slimy 
sins  belonging  to  both  conditions,  had  first  to  be  taught 
tlie  difficult  lessons  of  self-denial  and  forbearance.  On 
Cliristians  is  laid  the  loftier  obligation  of  active  and 
laborious  achievement.  It  is  much  for  the  fierce  ap- 
petites and  feeble  wills  of  savages  to  abstain  from  the 
grosser  indulgences  of  the  temper  and  the  flesh,  —  not  to 
steal,  not  to  kill,  not  to  lust,  not  to  lie.  But  the  civiliza- 
tion of  a  cultured  and  awakened  age  can  rest  content  in 
no  such  formal  or  meagre  conception  of  moral  duties. 
It  cannot  acquiesce  in  mere  self-regarding  excellence.  It 
feels  that  there  is  something  at  once  loftier,  more  gener- 
ous, and  more  imperative  than  the  asceticism  which  aims 
simply  at  the  elaboration  and  development  of  the  spiritual 
possibilities  of  a  man's  own  nature ;  and  that  to  serve 
others,  even  in  miry  byways,  in  menial  capacities,  in 
damaging  and  revolting  conditions,  is  a  worthier  and 
more  Christian  vocation  than  coddling  one's  individual 
soul.  Faire  son  devoir  is,  after  all,  a  nobler  purpose  than 
faire  son  saint.  The  indolent  and  timid  natures  who  find 
abstinence  safer  and  easier  than  action, 

"  Whose  sole  achievement  is  to  leave  undone," 

who  shirk  dangerous  duties  because  they  dread  exposure 
to  moral  risk,  who  are  content  to  do  no  active  good  if,  by 
fencing  themselves  carefully  about  with  a  cordon  sanitaire 

15* 


31G  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

of  rules  {Hid  cautions,  they  can  manage  to  creep  through 
life  in  a  sort  of  clever  quarantine,  and  so  do  no  mischief 
and  commit  no  sins,  —  can  scarcely,  in  any  healthy  esti- 
mate of  relative  excellence,  be  entitled  to  rank  ^vith  the 
bolder  spirits  who,  perhaps  over-recklessly,  despise  such 
egotistic  valetudinarianism,  and  rusli  out  into  the  con- 
flicts of  the  world  to  acquit  themselves  like  men ;  who, 
often  wandering  from  the  path,  often  falling  in  the  race, 
often  defeated  in  the  combat,  sometimes  even  soiled  Ijy 
the  contact  with  evil  and  with  guilt,  yet,  in  spite  of 
failures  and  of  falls,  press  on  with  unflagging  vigor  to  tlie 
end,  and  so  emerge  at  last,  sorely  wounded  it  may  be,  with 
their  armor  stained  and  their  tempers  roughened  if  not 
hardened  by  the  effort  and  the  strife,  but  having  at  least 
achieved  something  for  others  by  the  wa}'",  and  with  their 
faces  still  set  "as  though  they  uvvld  go  to  Jerusalem." 
Unless  the  unsophisticated  instincts  of  mankind  are  veiy 
far  astray,  our  deepest  gratitude  is  due,  not  to  the  jaire 
and  sinless,  but  to  the  greatly-daring  and  the  strongly- 
doing  ;  not  to  the  monk  in  his  convent  or  the  ascetic  on 
his  pillar,  but  to  the  warrior  in  a  good  cause,  to  the  ad- 
venturer in  a  grand  enterprise,  to  the  laborer  in  a  noble 
work.  "  I  cannot  "  (says  Milton)  "  praise  a  fugitive  and 
cloistered  virtue  that  never  sallies  out  and  sees  its  ad- 
versary, but  slinks  out  of  the  race  where  the  immortal 
garland  is  to  be  run  for,  —  not  without  dust  and  heat."  A 
greater  than  Milton  has  comforted  us  by  the  assurance 
that  much  is  forgiven  to  those  who  love  much  ;  that  the 
active  service  of  men  (which  is  charity)  covers  a  multi- 
tude of  sins,  and  is  more  and  loftier  than  creeds ;  and 
that  the  talent  laid  up  in  a  white  napkin,  and  so  scrupu- 
lously kept  out  of  harm's  way,  reaps  no  praise  and  bears 
no  fruit ;  while  the  talent  that  is  made  to  fructify  in 
commerce,  in  administration,  or  otlierwise,  earns  wealth 
first  and  recompense  and  honor  afterwards.  Surely,  in 
that  righteous  estimate  and  just  award  which  we  all  anti- 
cipate at  "  the  great  gathering  of  souls,"  a  man's  deeds  will 
be  set  against  his  omissions  and  liis  failures,  his  wanderings 
and  his  falls,  —  what  he  has  done  and  done  well  against 


GOOD  PEOPLE.  34; 


what  he  has  left  undone  or  done  amiss,  —  the  efforts  he 
has  made  and  the  services  he  has  rendered  against  the 
sins  he  has  committed  and  the  temptations  to  which  he 
has  succumbed.  Surely,  too,  as  Lord  Erskine  pleaded  (in 
tliat  grand  speech  which  has  become  a  classic  in  our  lan- 
guage), it  is  the  "  general  scope  "  of  the  Book  of  our  ex- 
istence by  whicli  we  shall  be  judged  then  and  by  which 
we  ought  to  be  estimated  now,  —  not  solely,  not  chiefly 
even,  "  those  frail  passages  which  checker  the  volume  of 
the  brightest  and  the  best  spent  life,  but  which  mercy 
obscures  from  the  eye  of  justice,  and  w^hich  repentance 
blots  out  forever." 

It  often  happens  that  the  truest  benefactors  of  man- 
kind are  precisely  those  to  whom  an  unthinking  and  un- 
grateful world  is  least  willing  to  concede  the  title.  The 
beneficent,  as  distinguished  from  the  benevolent, — those 
who  do  good,  not  those  who  merely  wish  it,  —  are  in 
many  cases  the  stern,  inflexible  administrators  of  a  sound 
rule,  rather  than  the  soft-hearted  who  would  relax  or  con- 
travene its  operation  to  meet  individual  instances  of  suffer- 
ing or  hardship.  These  rigid  men  of  principle  have  a 
hard  time  of  it  here  below ;  there  are  few  to  whom  we 
are  more  habitually  inijust.  Yet  nothing  is  so  capable 
of  proof  as  that  they  do  more  good,  prevent  or  mitigate 
more  wretchedness,  eradicate  more  evil,  than  perhaps  any 
other  characters.  Nay,  further:  a  great  portion  of 
their  work  —  for  which  they  are  hated  and  maligned 
—  consists  in  counteracting  and  undoing  the  mischief 
wrought  by  the  yielding  susceptibilities  of  the  charitably 
tender,  who  are  praised  and  petted  for  their  self-indul- 
gent malefactions.  The  "  good  people  "  who  administer 
the  noxious  but  delicious  anodyne  thank  God  that  they 
are  not  as  the  "  unsympathizing  and  cold-hearted,"  who 
insist  upon  the  healing  drug,  the  self-denying  system,  or 
the  needful  but  painful  operation.  Yet  usually  tliere  can 
be  as  little  doubt  which  of  the  two  are  the  world's  real 
friends,  as  which  are  the  truly  "  good  "  in  effort  and  in 
feeling.     The  stern  administrator  of  the  riohteous  and 


348  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

salutary  law  curbs  and  denies  those  njischievous  and 
sickly  sensibilities  which  the  maudlin  man  of  feeling 
simply  yields  to  and  fosters.  The  one  indulges  his  senti- 
ment at  the  cost  of  his  fellow-men :  the  other  controls 
his  sentiment  for  their  good. 

I'robably,  however,  if  we  take  as  our  measure  the 
amount  and  the  unalloyed  character  of  the  good  done, 
and  the  degree  of  effort  involved  in  doing  it,  tlie  "  good 
people"  par  excellence  must  be  the  Thinkers,  the  men  of 
intelligence  and  research.  He  who  destroys  a  fallacy, 
who  eradicates  a  superstition,  who  establishes  a  healing 
principle  or  a  prolific  truth,  who  in  any  way  adds  to  tlie 
knowledge  in  the  world  and  reduces  the  amount  of  error, 
confers  a  benefit  of  which  the  extent  is  sim])ly  incalcu- 
lable, because  its  duration  and  its  field  of  operation  are 
absolutely  illimitable.  If  we  trace  back  efiects  to  their 
ultimate  causes,  we  shall  find  that  most  of  our  vice  and 
nearly  all  our  misery  have  their  source  in  ignorance  or 
misconception ;  in  not  knowing,  or  not  fully  realizing, 
the  physical  and  moral  laws  on  which  our  well-being  de- 
pends ;  in  not  understanding,  in  this  our  day,  the  things 
which  belong  unto  our  peace ;  in  following  after  false 
gods,  and  blinding  ourselves  with  miserable  and  mislead- 
ing creeds.  The  fierce  passions  and  the  wild  desires  of 
men  never  could  have  raged  as  they  have  done  through 
countless  generations,  never  could  have  wrought  the  dev- 
astation they  have  spread  over  the  social  and  the  moral 
world,  if  false  doctrines  had  not  been  devised  to  justify 
and  canonize  the  passions,  and  if  baseless  theories  and 
crassa  ignorantia  had  not  combined  to  veil  the  inev- 
itable consequences  of  the  indulged  desires.  The  pe- 
culiarity, too,  of  the  good  worked  out  by  the  diffusion 
of  sound  knowledge  and  the  establishment  of  pure  truth 
is  that  it  is  usually,  except  perhaps  for  a  brief  period, 
quite  without  drawback  or  alloy.  The  man  Avho  founds 
a  charitable  institution  may  be  doing  vast  mischief  along 
with  a  minimum  of  good  ;  the  man  who  discovers  a  scien- 
tific fact,  or  proves  and  procures  general  receptitjn  ior  a 
philosophic  principle,  bequeathes  his  blessing  to  the  world 


GOOD  PEOPLE.  349 


"  without  money  and  without  price/'  He  adds  liis  mite 
forever  to  the  a,t>'gregate  possessions,  the  joint  inlierit- 
ance,  of  man,  and  he  adds  a  mite  which  is  in  its  nature 
and  essence  healing,  beneficent,  and  fructifying,  and 
which  no  opposition  can  more  than  temporarily  render 
otherwise.  The  spccifirMlly  philanthropic  have,  we  all 
know,  often  been  among  the  saddest  mischief-makers  that 
complicated  mo  J  em  society  has  nourished  in  its  bosom, 
and  in  a  thousand  instances,  and  by  a  tliousand  proofs, 
have  created  more  misery  than  they  have  relieved.  What 
religion  and  the  specifically  pious  have  done  to  comfort 
sorrow,  to  relieve  distress,  to  confer  moral  strength,  to 
inspire  great  deeds,  to  support  "  majestic  pains,"  it  is  true 
we  can  never  fairly  estimate ;  but  all  history  is  full  of 
the  crimes,  and  cruelties,  and  terrible  inilictions,  and 
heinous  wrongs  wrought,  not  only  in  the  name  of  relig- 
ion, but  under  the  undeniable  inspiration  of  its  sincerely 
followed,  but  deplorably  misread  spirit.  If,  at  last,  char- 
ity and  faith  liave  begun  to  be  verily  beneficent ;  if  the 
former  has  grown  wise  and  self-controlled,  and  the  latter 
rational,  tolerant,  and  just;  it  is  to  the  spread  of  knowl- 
edge and  the  laljors  of  the  Thinker  that  we  owe  their  })uri- 
'  fication.  It  is  the  men  of  intellect  who  have  taught  the 
men  of  feeling  and  the  men  of  piety  truly  to  "  do  good." 

There  is  yet  another  class  of  "  good  people  "  wdiom  we 
once  heard  described  as  doing  good  hy  cffiitvia.  The 
definition  created  considerable  amusement  at  the  time,  yet 
no  other  could  have  been  so  apt  or  just.  They  do  good 
by  being  good.  Their  natures  are  so  beautiful,  and  withal 
so  full  of  a  rich  and  beneficent  vitality,  that  it  is  sufficient 
for  them  to  live  in  order  to  diffuse  happiness  around  them. 
They  seem  to  radiate  virtue  and  joy  ;  we  are  grateful  to 
them  (to  borrow  the  well-known  phrase  sarcastically  used 
by  Beauniarchais)  jjarccqiLils  se  sont  doimds  la  23'^inc  de 
naitre.  Their  characters  are  so  well  balanced,  their  dis- 
positions so  affectionate,  their  tempers  so  sweet  and  gentle, 
that  they  disseminate  and  inspire  peace  and  good-will 
without  effort  and  without  consciousness :  — 


350  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

"  Glad  souls,  without  reproach  or  blot, 
"Who  do  His  -will,  and  know  it  not." 

Selfishness  and  anger  cannot  live  in  tlieir  presence ;  their 
mere  companionship  pours  oil  upon  troubled  waters  and 
balm  into  wounded  spirits ;  their  goodness  and  kindliness 
are,  as  it  were,  catching.     As  Keble  expresses  it, 

"They  Kecni  to  dwell 
Above  this  earth,  —  so  rich  a  spell 
Floats  round  their  i)ath  where'er  they  move, 
From  hopes  fulfilled  and  mutual  love." 

Yet,  though  about  the  best,  they  are  by  no  means  always 
the  happiest  of  God's  creatures.  Often,  indeed,  they  have 
known  a  deeper  than  common  sorrow ;  only  they  have 
survived  it,  or  conquered  it,  or  assimilated  it,  —  turned  it, 
that  is,  into  a  blessing  and  a  nutriment. 

"  The  serenity  of  soul, 
Which  of  itself  shows  immortality," 

is  forever  mirrored  in  their  "clear  calm  brows,"  and  speaks 
unmistakably  of  peace  attained,  —  not  the  peace  which 
brooded  over  Eden,  but  that  which  crowned  Gethsemane. 

The  philanthropic  and  religious  will,  no  doubt,  demur 
to  this  attempt,  not  so  much  to  push  them  from  their  ped- 
estal, as  to  assert  the  claims  of  others  to  share  it  witli 
them.  They  will  plead  that  they  do  good  directly  and  of 
dehberate  purpose  aforethouglit ;  while  the  rest  of  the 
candidates  named  for  the  same  civic  crown  only  do  good 
imdesignedly  and  as  an  incident  to  their  main  end  and 
ordinary  work  ;  that  there  must  be  a  wide  difference 
in  desert  ^nd  estimation  between  the  man  whose  distinct 
vocation  it  is  to  benefit  his  fellows,  *and  the  man  from 
whose  honorable  pursuit  of  his  own  vocation  good  to  the 
world,  through  the  wise  arrangements  of  Providence, 
naturally  results;  and  that  it  is  a  misjudgment  to  rank 
in  the  same  class  those  who  place  the  good  of  others  be- 
fore tlieir  eyes  as  a  definite  ohjcct,  and  those  who  only 
entail  it,  and  perhaps  do  not  always  foresee  it,  as  a  con- 
sequence of  their  actions.  But  this  plea,  though  not 
wdiolly  without  force,  is  habitually  stretched  much  too 
far.     Of  every  man  who  performs  the  task  assigned  him. 


GOOD  PEOPLE.  351 


or  the  task  for  which  he  is  best  fitted,  in  the  complex 
machinery  of  life,  and  who  does  this  in  a  straightforward 
temper  and  in  a  workmanlike  fashion,  two  things  may- 
be safely  predicated  :  first,  that  he  is  doing  his  duty, 
which  is  always  a  righteous  and  sometimes  a  noble  act ; 
and,  secondly,  that,  in  order  to  do  it,  he  has  to  use  effort 
and  to  overcome  temptation  of  some  sort,  whether  it 
be  the  temptation  of  indolence  or  that  of  pleasure :  and 
in  most  cases  the  philanthropist  or  the  missionary  does 
no  more.  No  true  or  worthy  work  of  any  kind  can  be 
accomplished  without  encountering  difficulties,  and  sur- 
mounting obstacles,  and  facing  dangers,  and  putting  forth 
the  qualities  of  energy  and  perseverance ;  without,  in  a 
word,  a  steady  resolution  and  a  persistent  self-control 
which  are  worthy  of  all  honor.  In  many  instances  of  the 
comparatively  incidental  benefactors  of  mankind  who 
Jiave  been  mentioned,  serving  their  fellow-creatures  and 
doing  God's  work- has  been  their  ultimate  though  not 
their  proximate  aim,  —  their  virtual  and  secret  though 
not  their  avowed  or  constantly  conscious  inspiration, — 
an  inspiration  which  has  to  be  often  summoned  to  their 
aid  in  hours  of  depression  and  disheartenment  when  the 
willing  spirit  is  on  the  point  of  succumbing  to  the  weak 
and  weary  flesh.  It  is  so  with  the  statesman,  with  the 
philosopher,  with  the  astronomer,  with  the  inventors  and 
discoverers  in  science  ;  with  the  poet,  if  he  comprehends 
the  grandeur  of  his  calling,  as  Milton  did ;  Avith  the 
musician,  if  his  strains,  like  those  of  Handel  and  Mozart, 
are  such  as  purify  and  elevate  the  soul.  The  patient  and 
skilful  surgeon  is  not  the  less  a  mitigator  of  human  suffer- 
ing because  he  takes  his  fees,  and  is  wrapped  up  in  his 
profession,  rather  than  perpetually  reminding  himself  of 
its  beneficence.  The  writer,  whether  of  philosophy  or 
fiction,  who  "  vindicates  the  ways  of  God  to  men,"  who 
renders  virtue  attractive  and  great  thoughts  familiar,  is 
not  the  less  a  doer  of  good  because  he  desires  fame  ar- 
dently and  loves  it  profoundly  when  it  comes.  The  emi- 
nent lawyer,  who  deals  out  righteous  decisions  and  widely 
influential  judgments,  has  not  the  weaker  claim  upon  our 


352  LITERARY  AND  SOCIAL  JUDGMENTS. 

gratitude  because  his  heart  has  seldom  consciously  glowed 
M'ith  the  love  of  his  fellow-men ;  because  he  thinks 
more  of  doing  his  work  well  and  justly  than  of  tlie  bless- 
ings which  tliat  true  work  may  ultimately  spread  abroad. 
The  artist,  even,  who  is  absorbed  in  his  art, —  who  so 
worships  it  that  he  would  deem  it  almost  an  insult  to  re- 
gard it  as  a  means  and  not  an  end,  —  if  only  liis  concep- 
tions of  its  scope  are  pure  and  noble,  may  be  one  of  God's 
choicest  instruments  and  fellow-workers  in  the  onward 
march  of  humanity  ;  ay,  even  though  his  art  be  its  own 
"exceeding  great  reward,"  and  though  his  soul  never 
soars  beyond  its  boundaries. 

And  for  the  mere  privates  in  the  ranks  of  the  va^t 
army  of  the  faithful,  the  humbler  day-laborers  in  tlie 
wide  field  of  toil,  whose  efforts  and  contributions  are  just 
as  indispensable  to  the  grand  issue  as  those  of  their  cap- 
tains and  their  guides,  —  if  they  are  but  true  to  the  re- 
quirements of  their  calling,  and,  "  whatever  their  hand 
findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  all  their  might,"  —  who  shall 
dispute  their  title  to  share  alike  in  the  prize-money  and 
the  fame,  though  they  never  dreamed  of  putting  in  a 
claim  for  either  ?  In  virtue  of  the  ever-fixed  decree  of 
the  Most  High,  every  man  who  does  his  work  and  his 
duty  MUST  be  also  doing  good ;  and,  lastly, 

"  They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

It  is  not  ours  to  measure  relative  merit  or  award  the 
palm  of  virtue.  Of  one  thing  only  we  may  be  sure, 
that  for  ALL  true  lovers  and  servers  of  Humanity  (what- 
ever may  have  been  their  line)  there  is  reserved  —  not 
fame,  not  glorv',  not  perhaps  even  recognition  liere,  not  a 
niche  in  the  grand  Valhalla  of  the  Xorthern  Gods,  not  a 
bower  in  the  chill  and  pallid  moonlight  of  a  Greek  Ely- 
sium, but  —  a  welcome  and  a  home  in  that  beautiful  and 
tranquil  world  which  is  the  goal  of  all  onr  earthly  aspi- 
rations,—  the  world  of  solved  j^fohlems,  of  realized  ideals, 
of  yearning  affections  quenched  in  the  fulness  of  fruition, 
— that  world  where  the  Spirit  shall  be  always  willing, 
and  the  Flesh  never  weak. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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